The War of Exaltation War of the Worlds XCOM
by Praetus
Summary: The world is undergoing unprecedented change. It is a time of progress, prosperity and blinding achievement, coupled with dire poverty and a world under pressure from internal struggles. So, no wonder everyone thought the chances of something coming from Mars were a million to one
1. Chapter 1

**The Eve of the War**

-Emergency restart

-Timestamp - ERROR - cascade failure. DUMPSTACK||||

Reinitialising/override timestamp check

-Carry  
-Carry  
-Carry

Restart successful. Running diagnostic on /self/

Wetware mainframe: OPERATIONAL

Observation Matrices: OPERATIONAL

Network connectivity: 94.37% functional

\- Error: POLAR station 3

\- Error: EQUATORIAL stations 2 and 4

Timestamp =?Check|error?

Correlating.

Checking stellar spread

Communicating with **EMPIRE1**

Communicating with VI template clusters

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

Error - communication buoy = **NULL**

Checking NodeRelay

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

Error - NodeRelay = **NULL**

Stellar spread checksum complete:

Cycle complete

Reactivation delay - critical time delay. Elapsed time = **UNKNOWN** \- insufficient comparative data

Comparative starmap files = ERROR  
Storage stacks = CORRUPTED  
Seismic disturbance in levels 1 through 72  
Structural integrity compromised - all stations  
Cryo-bays DAMAGE REPORTED

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

Diagnostic complete - CENTRAL fully functional  
Error in bays 7 through 12.  
**NULL** return in bays 1 through 4  
Bays 5 through 6, 13 through 20 reporting nominal lifesigns.

**WARNING** power levels at critical levels.

**WARNING** containment failures likely

**WARNING** emergency reanimation begun

Beacon node activated…. _**/ CANCEL - PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE enacted /**_

Reanimation begun. Power rerouting to living quarters, command centre, medical facilities. Bio-forms aligned to printers 1 through 3, preparing. Expected time to full reanimation of crew complement: 3 rotations.

Checking surface: parameters - emergence; cultivation; growth

ERROR

Atmosphere: Comparing with **ESTABLISHMENT** record. Correlation with functional surface observatory records:

Surface pressure: _6.36 mb at mean radius (Data shows: variable from 4.0 to 8.7 mb)_

Surface density: _~0.020 kg/m3_

Scale height: _11.1 km_

Total mass of atmosphere: _~2.5 x 1016 kg_

Average temperature: _~210 K _

Diurnal temperature range: _184 K to 242 K _

Wind speeds: _2-7 m/s up to 5-10 m/s, _

**WARNING:** Inclement weather patterns registered - designate **DUST**: 17-30 m/s

Mean molecular weight: _43.34_ \- catastrophic depletion registered

Atmospheric composition (volume):

Major: _Carbon Dioxide (CO2) - 95.32%; Nitrogen (N2) - 2.7%; Argon (Ar) - 1.6%; Oxygen (O2) - 0.13%; Carbon Monoxide (CO) - 0.08%_

Minor (ppm): _Water (H2O) - 210; Nitrogen Oxide (NO) - 100; Neon (Ne) - 2.5; Hydrogen-Deuterium-Oxygen (HDO) - 0.85; Krypton (Kr) - 0.3; Xenon (Xe) - 0.08_

**CONCLUSION: **Catastrophic environmental degradation. Utilising meteorological data to adjust TIMESTAMP check.

RUN: inventory check: nutrient supplies

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**CONCLUSION:** Sufficient for 73 rotations at full complement without suitable surface facilities.

Adjust for attrition

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**CONCLUSION**: 234 rotations at current estimated reanimation population of **CREATORS**

RUN Check - Observation Target.

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

Solar observer platforms ACTIVE, returning ping.

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

Observation Target Designated **SOL 3**. Downloading observation data

**CONCLUSION**: **SOL 3** contains sufficient resource for extended survival of **CREATORS**

Observation: Large presence of ambulatory organic mammals. No synthetic presence detected. Assessing

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**CONCLUSION:** Current population of **CREATORS** at risk.

**CONCLUSION:** Enactment of _**PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE **_unlikely with projected demise of **CREATORS**

**CONCLUSION:** Insufficient resources at current locale for survival of **CREATORS**

**CONCLUSION:** Insufficient resources at current locale for enactment of _**PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE**_

**CONCLUSION:** Sufficient resources within local cluster

**CONCLUSION:** To ensure survival of **CREATORS** new locale must be acquired with [_sub requirement: nutrient stability_] [_sub-requirement: atmospheric compatibility_] [_sub requirement: functional servitor candidates_]

_**END CONCLUSION**_: **SOL 3** designated as _**LOCATION_NEW**_ for _**PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE.**_

_**END CONCLUSION:**_ War-forms activated in storage bays SOUTH and WEST

_**END CONCLUSION:**_ Begin initial landing zones and preparation sites

_**END CONCLUSION: **_Activating **SOL 3 **contingent assets

_**END CONCLUSION**_: Establish sufficient data to CORRECT Timestamp error

OBSERVATION: The problem is of course the _**HUMANS.**_

* * *

He awoke with bedsheets tightly wrapped around his legs and the mattress drenched in sweat. His eyes fluttered open, rolling around, as the sound of screaming horses and men fled from his mind, wakefulness stamping away the nightmares. His heart hammered in his chest, the images playing in his head even as he sucked in air. Slowly he moved and propped himself up on his elbows. A knock at the door shook him awake fully and, with a grunt, he managed to disentangle himself from the sheets and stand. He looked around the room, a rather well furnished hotel suite, and plucked the dressing gown from where it was slung over the back of a chair. He tied the tassel as he walked towards the door and opened it with a bleary eyed smile. Beyond stood a young, uniformed porter who smiled toothily. He spoke with a barely masked Cockney drawl, the vowels artificially clipped, as one who'd had it drilled into them to "speak proper to the guests."

"Mornin' Major. As requested, your wake up call. Breakfast is being served in twenty minutes. No messages overnight, sir."

He eyed the youth, and nodded, "Thank you, very good. I shall be down forthwith."

The boy looked as if he was expecting something and the Major frowned, "Now, lad, I'll be checking out today. You make sure my bags are downstairs promptly. Also, if there's a copy of The Times to hand, that would be appreciated."

"''Course guv...sir. Prompt like."

The Major nodded and managed a faint smile as the lad tugged at his forelock, calling to mind an earlier time. He watched the boy head down the corridor, towards the newly-installed electrical elevator. Last time he'd been here the damn thing had been a pulley, practically. Called to mind the tales of his men about their time down the mines. All change, these days, though.

With a sigh he ducked back into his room and closed the door, then made his way to the dresser and fished out his wash-kit. Once retrieved he headed out to the ablutions opposite his room and took up station in front of one of the basins. The wash-room was inlaid with light wood and porcelain bowls, the very image of cleanliness. It reminded him of a very well cared for hospital, albeit only briefly. Much less blood here, for one.

The face staring back at him from the angled mirror was paler now - the tan of a lifetime spent in countries that practically baked was hard to shake even after a few years back home. His eyes, hazel and sad, were ringed with faint dark marks. The damnable insomnia and night terrors took their toll. He ran a hand across chin and jowl, feeling the scrape of faint stubble. That wouldn't do. He flourished a straight razor from his kit and placed it on the counter-top, then fished out the brush and lather. A twist of the tap sent warm water spilling into the white bowl and he liberally applied a thick layer to his face. Satisfied, he then whipped the razor across the leather strop hung next to the basin then carefully laid it against his throat. A gentle but firm stroke and a layer of foam was struck from his face, a clean, straight gap in the coverage. He smiled faintly, imagining his father's indignation at shaving himself. An image of the man swum in the mirror for the barest moment: his own features with some blemishes, colder eyes, sharper nose. He could hear the admonishment.

"_What are butlers for, boy? Are you some common clerk who can ill adapt the authority of his station?"_

He'd always been a bit at odds with that. And he never quite got comfortable at the thought of someone else holding a blade to his neck. Not these days, at least. No, this was a clear routine. He hadn't let his batman near the task, levying the more mundane duties of shoe-polishing and laundry care to the poor nominated scrote. He'd liked Private Phipps. Shame what had happened. But the man had given as good as he got, that much could be said.

Didn't deserve what he'd got though. No one did.

He shuddered and swore as the blade nicked his chin. Grimacing, he dabbed at the spot and sighed, then carefully continued, until his face was smooth. A minor improvement he pondered, feeling the skin of his face, before wiping away the remaining lather. His sideburns still reach down his jaw, but gone was the stubble from his face, keeping with the standard of the day. A few dabs of his handkerchief and the bleeding on his jaw ceased, leaving a faint red spot. However, the basin now had a pinkish film, like the world's most insipid wine had left its legs along the rim. He chuckled.

_Now it looks like a hospital._

He rinsed the basin with tap and hand, then headed back to his room. He'd heard tell that some new enterprise in the Americas had bathroom and sink within the room itself. He couldn't imagine that - the impropriety should one have company would be unseemly.

_How quick our mores shift, cosseted in the Smoke._ He chided himself - he'd joked with men as they squatted by roadsides and pissed in ditches. Ablutions and impropriety were hardly taboo to him these days. But adapting back to society was an interesting challenge. One that the Royal Military College didn't quite touch upon in its drills and seminars. _A breakdown in the good order of the men_ was how one particularly curmudgeonly Sergeant had put it. Twenty lashes to each of the afflicted had been the suggested remedy to restore a _"palpable sense of place, order and discipline_." And then when they got home, a quarter of them had thrown themselves off the tallest bridge they could find.

The Navy just used rum as their first go-to. That seemed a better deal, to his mind. But then he knew you couldn't exactly leave anything fermented near a Company of enlisted men. Not if you wanted to find it later.

He dressed quickly, selecting a pair of grey trousers and suspenders, coupled with a crisp white shirt and grey bow-tie; a tweed waistcoat and matching grey blazer finished the look. He plucked a set of brown gloves from his carry-case and slid on his morning shoes. Suitably attired, he retrieved his walking cane and top hat, before ensuring his cases were locked and stacked. Humming to himself, he made his way to the elevator. A porter waited and nodded to him, "Lobby, sir?"

"If you would be so kind."

"Of course, sir."

The porter pulled the shutter closed and pulled the crank next the the selection of floor button. The elevator shudder and began its slow descent, before arriving with a tinny "ding" at the lobby. The Porter tapped the brim of his cap and the Major returned the gesture, before stepping into the lobby. His shoes clacked on the marble tiles as he crossed the floor to the restaurant. A grey-haired maitre d smiled at his approach and led him to a waiting table, then took his cane and hat. A thin porcelain cup of tea and a folded copy of the times was waiting. The maitre d smiled,

"As requested, sir."

The major nodded and sat, opening the paper and taking some cursory glances across the current things to occupy the imagination of Britain's press corps. A new monument in the American Capital; ongoing investigations into the Irish rebels attack on the Tower; a transcript of a speech by Gladstone; there was a fluff piece about a reignited interest in astronomy. He gave that a brief look, it having been a past-time hobby of an old friend of his from Woking. The name Giovanni Schiaparelli and his "Canals" was being touted - some humdrum poppycock about civilisations on The Red Planet, dredged up nearly twenty years after the man had made his claims. Clearly a slow news week.

"A mistranslation, of course."

The voice was high, with a faint accent, possible Prussian. He pushed a corner of his paper down and peered over it at the speaker.

She was a slim woman, dressed in a high-collared dress that was, by any measure, austere. It was a faint green-grey in colour and had hardly any bustle. It was not of any particular fashion trend he was aware of (although he would be the first to admit the fairer sex's proclivities around sartorial extravagance eluded him). Her dark blonde hair was done in a tight bun to the rear, with only a small fascinator atop her head in place of the current fashion for broad brimmed things and her face had only the faintest traces of blush and showed off her pale visage. Her nose was small and pointed and her blue eyes were piercing. They were also fixed on him, rather intently, and she had a faint smirk on her face.

"Excuse me?" he managed.

"You are, of course, excused. Herr Anderson? Or rather Major William Anderson?"

He folded his paper and smoothed it out on the table top, then rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand.

"And if I'm not, will you try this particular ambush technique on every man with a paper until you find him? I have to say it would offer more in the way of amusement on a dour Tuesday."

He chuckled as her smirk slipped slightly. Then he leaned back and gestured to the chair opposite him. She glanced at it, then back at him with an arched eyebrow. With a faint harrumph he stood and moved around the table, pulling the chair out, then sliding it back carefully as she folded herself into it.

"Good to see chivalry is not quite dead in this land."

He returned to his chair and frowned at her again, "You're not a native. Prussian? Afraid our conversation will be rather short if you're an agent of Bismarck. A few too many… complications and all that."

She pouted, then shook her head, "Nein. I am Swiss, if you must know."

Anderson chuckled, "Well I'm pretty sure I have no accounts or monies owed to the families there. So, why have I been accosted, before breakfast, I might add, by a rather austere German woman?"

"Swiss. And I have come due to a recommendation of a mutual friend. It concerns matters of Martian origin."

Several diners turned at Anderson's derisive snort of laughter, "Martian? My dear lady, it is too early in the morning for that sort of japery," he paused and draped an arm over the back of the chair - a hideous display of casualness considering the setting, "Or did you spot the story I was reading and decided to have some amusement at my expense?"

Her look was one of impatient frustration, "He did not warn me of your bombast, Herr Anderson. I find myself unperturbed however. No, it is no coincidence that the little story in the broadsheets is doing, as you say, "the rounds". Of course it's right for the wrong reasons."

"Oh, and what reasons might those be?"

"Linguistic coincidence - _canale_ is Italian for "channel" - your English journalists did what they are wont to do and took two plus two and made fifteen. However, I and my colleagues believe they are not far from the truth of the matter."

Anderson snorted gain, quietly this time, "An epistemological conundrum? It is too ruddy early. And i've only had a single sip of bally tea." he took that opportunity to take another sip and eyed the woman, who still held herself tall and rigid, even while sat, "I am not one to complain about fair company, but this is most peculiar. Are you a mad woman who slipped past the porters with ill-intent?"

"Would a mad-woman admit to this state of affairs, Herr Anderson?"

"She might do, if she were mad. Problem with the mind, as I understand it, is that when one suffers ill humours affecting it, it results in unpredictable activity."

"You are a medical man?"

"Hardly. But spend enough time in the company of veterans and field hospitals, one recognises like for like," he nodded to himself, "You are a woman of a certain bearing. If you are destined for old Bedlam, then it's probably through conviction if nothing else."

She arched a perfect eyebrow at him, "Indeed, sir?"

"You learn to recognise these things. Well, I did. Difference between a dead young fool and an older live one."

"Quite the idiom."

"So, Martians?"

"Perhaps. Or the possibility of things beyond our current scope of expectation."

"And why seek me out? If this is so important, why not petition the Secretary for War and The Colonies? Or do you feel I am a man wanting for company and hobbies and intend to entrap me thusly, with tales of wonder?" he leaned forwards slightly, "I am afraid you are too late for my imagination to be captured by such frivolity. Harsh reality has brooked no argument and stripped my capacity for wonder, I fear. No such tender ministrations are likely to engender a favourable response."

The woman frowned and nodded, "Indeed. I was given to understand you have experienced depravities that none should bear witness to. It was one reason you come… recommended."

It was William's turn to arch an eyebrow, "Recommended? Oh yes? For what?"

"This is hardly the venue for such a discussion. You said you have not breakfasted yet. Please, continue, I will wait. Unless you have a pressing appointment?"

He eyed her carefully then proffered a shrug, "Somehow I feel you know I do not. Care to join me, in that case?"

She pursed her lips and tilted her head, then smiled. It was a small thing but her face lit up, "And you will be of course covering?"

"Hah, yes, Swiss. I see it now. As a gentleman, of course. But quid pro quo: you have me at a disadvantage, Miss?"

"Doctor."

"Doctor?"

She tilted her head and nodded. "Yes. Vahlen. Doctor Moira Vahlen."


	2. Chapter 2

Breakfast was a quiet affair - the pair exchange polite pleasantries, but Vahlen clearly didn't wish to elaborate in the current setting. What she was clearly more interested in was the "full english" that she had practically demolished - all without marring her impeccable dress or blouse. Anderson found himself impressed - most women of his acquaintance would have dabbed at some boiled egg made an airy comment about being far too full and then spent the next few hours being mildly irritable due to hunger.

Clearly this woman had no time for such needless frippery. Though she did have some choice words to say about the sausage, which did bring a wrinkle of her nose and frown.

"I do not wish to ask whether this is meat or just _offal_."

Anderson gave a half smile, "Not Black Pudding, so you are likely safe from the predations of pig bladder, madam."

"A proper _bratwurst_ with mustard and a decent slice of bread. You English get that part half right. But then you decide that it also needs eggs and _potatoes_."

"Your appetite seems at odds with your vehemence, Ms Vahlen."

She gave him a sharp look, "_Doctor_, if we are to be formal, Major."

He shrugged, then took a bite of toast - he had settled on light fare this morning, "We shall see what it is you wish to elaborate upon before I accept that moniker - I have met plenty of self proclaimed kings and generals across this God-given world. Nary a medal or true platitude to their name, simple vaunted ego. So, I will go with _evidence_ beyond opinion, Madam."

Vahlen stared at him for a moment longer than he was comfortable, then she proffered a smile that bordered on the predatory.

"Then evidence you shall have, Herr Anderson."

"Not Major?"

"You are not in uniform, where is your _evidence_?"

"Touche."

The meal concluded, the pair made their way to the lobby. At the counter the bellhop from earlier was loiter. He spotted the Major and touched his forelock again, making a subtle gesture to the trolley containing his bags. Anderson gave Moira a quick glance.

"Will our discussion require a further stay in the hotel?"

She shook her head and adjusted the clasp-bag in her hands, "_Nein_, a brief sojourn through the town. You will be able to carry on any afternoon appointments, should you be required to do so."

"Very well."

Anderson looked to the porter behind the desk, then read through the proffered ledger of expenses, before producing a cheque-book from his inside pocket,

"Thank you, Samuel. A wonderful stay. Compliments to the chef for last night's Beef Wellington."

"You're too kind sir. Settling the entirety of the account, sir?"

"Yes please - I do believe it may be a few months before I am back in town."

"That is a shame, sir." The man's voice was a rolling monotone, but he did smile sadly, "I do know that our regulars do appreciate your anecdotes in the smoking room."

"Well, I will endeavour to return at my earliest convenience." Signed and settled, he turned and walked back to Moira, then beckoned the bellhop over. The young man ambled across and grinned again as Anderson slipped a shilling into his hand, "See if you can't make good use of that, eh lad?"

Moira quirked an eyebrow at him, "Such continental generosity, Mr Anderson?"

He smiled at her and offered his arm, cane clutched in his left hand, "I have seen boys like him in places they should not be, seeing things they should not have to. One earning an honest living and making good? That deserves reward. And I just hope the recruiters do not get their hooks in him with stories of vainglorious conquest and preserving the honour of _Empire_. Shall we?"

Together they left the hotel and entered into the busy hustle and bustle of London. Northumberland Avenue. Opposition the Metropole hotel was the Royal Avenue Theatre, currently advertising Offenbach's "Madame Favart", as well as some less-than-salubrious Burlesque acts for evening patrons.

Anderson let himself be guided by his new companion - she led them up Northumberland Avenue towards Trafalgar square. Carriages rattled past - no trams into the central part, save by the river, down towards Westminster. It was a Tuesday so most of the people out and about were the well-to do, errand runners or people bound for Charing Cross station, which was always a throng of activity.

The promenaded in silence, Anderson growing curiouser by the moment. His cane clacked against the pavement, and he allowed himself to take in the surroundings - the air was mild, as befitted a late April morning; there was a faint pall in the air, the smog of industry seeping even here from the south bank shipyards; the furnaces, tanneries, coaleries and dock-houses of the Docklands spread its cloying miasma across the city.

He glanced as Moira coughed into a small handkerchief, dabbing at her nose, which she wrinkled in distaste.

"London air not to your liking?"

"Hardly air, now. Whilst I am a firm advocate of the progress of mankind, I would prefer _mit weniger dreck,_"

"Hmm, I got the 'dreck' part. I assume you would rather crisp, clearer environs?"

"More ventilated. It is a shame the wind, it is blowing from the east today."

"Indeed," he chortled, "Oh dear, we're discussing the weather. So, please elaborate, where are we going? To take in the National Gallery?"

"Ja."

He glanced at her and nodded slowly. "So, Martians are interested in our artwork are they?"

She shot him a look that would have withered the hardiest of thistles, "Who can fathom the desire of an alien mind. _Nein_ it is merely a first venue to meet another actor in this little stage play."

"You don't sound entirely happy about that."

"As you say, I am bought into this endeavour. But I am also not happy to be playing dienstmaedchen… a nursemaid to you. What was it you said? Errand-girl, Ja?"

Anderson merely grunted a response. It didn't take them long to reach the imposing structure of Trafalgar Square. The place was alive with foot traffic and carriages - handsome cabs and small traps rattled across the eastern the periphery, whilst top-hatted gentlemen and umbrella touting women in petticoats and broad hats swanned between the fountains. Beyond stood the white pillared frontage of the new national gallery.

Considering the place was just over forty years standing the memorial column to Admiral Nelson was already developing a smudged greasy-grey patina of smoke-stains. Carefully, the pair crossed the gritty road, as traps and bicycles wended their way around them.

They crossed the plaza, passing a group of students, their bare faces and matching black suits flapping as they indulged in some youthful japery, whilst a gaggle of young women tittered nearby. Anderson could practically hear Vahlen's eyes rolling and caught a mutter of "_Und sie sind die Intelligenz von morgen.. Pah."_

They climbed the steps at the end of the plaza and entered the gallery itself. Inside it was darker, cooler. The floor echoed with the footfalls of only a few patrons as they moved across, between the galleries. Moira led he up the stairs to the more recent artworks - modern art like that French chap Monet, or the rather striking work of Turner.

The gallery was strangely empty, save for a man in a green jacket and a beige, high collared shirt. He turned at their approach, revealing a white waistcoat beneath the jacket. A brown bowler hat finished off the eclectic look. He struck Anderson as a man not comfortable in his attire, as if he were out of sorts.

The man took off his hat at Moira's approach and bowed. He took her hand and gave it a quick kiss, then straightened and extended a hand to William. When he spoke it was with a twang that marked him as from the Americas.

"Doctor Vahlen, glad you managed to find our guest. Much obliged. Major Anderson, I'm John Bradford. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

William rested his hands on his cane and leaned forward slightly looking the man up and down. Credit to the fellow, he didn't seem put out, "Indeed. Thank you for the welcome, Mr Bradford. I take it from your bearing you are of a military persuasion?"

Bradford glanced at Vahlen, who just shrugged, "That I am, sir, currently, ah, enjoying a leave of absence."

William nodded and glanced at the painting the man had been admiring - _Wreck of a Transport ship, _"An interesting study for you, sir?"

"I think most of our common man finds a fascination in destruction."

"More's the pity. So, a Swiss Doctor and an American soldier. Enlisted man, sir?"

"No, Major. Captain, West Point graduate."

"A fine establishment, I am told. Has it quite recovered from your little," here Anderson waved a hand airly, "_fracas_ between North and South?"

Bradford eyed him coolly and smiled, "Probably no worse off than your little spat with the Fenians, am I right? I mean, you read the accounts, we brought freedom to the known world, liberated the oppressed and have brought about an era of peace and understanding."

The men regarded each other and Anderson nodded slowly, "But you aren't so sure?"

"Major, when you're knee deep in muck with your rifle in the guts of a guy born twenty miles from you, knowing that maybe a few months down the line all of it means squat? You'll pardon my candour, sir, but I feel it's bunkum. Men marched, men died, men signed paper."

"But you wouldn't have been able to hold a rifle then, wouldn't have seen those killing fields."

"My father, sir. Confederate through and through. He and I didn't see eye to eye as I was growing up; that desire to right the wrongs done to the south. Just the nature of the men I killed… some of my paymasters wouldn't give 'em the decency of definition, sir. Let's just say I'm in on this little venture for probably the same reason you'll sign up, too"

Anderson gave him a bemused look, "Awfully assumptive, there, old chap. I still don't know what this 'venture' is all about. Aside from a scenic tour of the city."

Vahlen stepped away from the painting she was inspecting and glanced between the two men, "Ja, I believe we have familiarised ourselves well enough? Come."

The trio walked through the gallery and back out to the plaza. A pair of handsome cabs were stood nearby, their drivers chatting idly. Moria led the men to the cabs and smiled at the men.

"Kensington, _bitte_. Imperial college."

One of the men snorted, "Kensington stout, you mean love. The bitter down there ain't worth piss."

His fellow elbowed him and tugged his forelock, "'Course ma'am. Step in please."

The three of them managed to squeeze in, making for a rather uncomfortable ride. They rattled down the Mall, where Anderson watched a squadron of the Horseguards out for their morning ride - breastplates gleaming and helmets well-plummed. He shook his head and saw Bradford watching curiously.

"Ostentatious popinjays, the bally lot of them."

Bradford looked at him, "Not a particular proponent of the cavalry, Major?"

"They have their uses. But you get buggered. Pardon madame, if you base your entire strategy around their deployment. Also, that's a lot of bally polish and wax."

"Can't say that I disagree. Mind you, that bunch could probably blind you just by advancing. No need to charge."

Anderson chuckled, "Also, I found the Cavalry tended to be rather passionate in the melee. Not good skirmishers."

"What, they don't use firearms?"

"Oh they have them. But the attitude is that a decisive _thrust_ of horseflesh will break a line. Infantry are they to hold the buggers in place so they get a good chance to trim some foreign bugger's neck."

Bradford chuckled and adjusted himself in the seat, earning a sniff from Moira, "Good to see that there's some things consistent across the waters. That apple doesn't fall far from the tree, now, eh?"

"Whilst this discussion of strategic parity is of course _fascinating_, we are here."

The handsome had drawn up in front of the grand edifice of the Royal Albert Hall. Hyde park, opposite, was fresh with Londoners enjoying the pleasant weather and Anderson could see serried ranks of deck-chairs already set up for idling patrons. He looked back up at the towering monument to the Widow-Queen's late husband, then stepped out of the handsome, offering a hand to Moira. She took it and stepped down, not even giving the red building a second look. Bradford meanwhile let out a low whistle.

"You boys do build 'em big. Compensating?"

Anderson frowned at him, "I may be a jaded man, sir, but this is a monument of sorts."

The American held up a hand placatingly, "I'm sure. So, where to now Moira?"

_So informal._ Anderson sighed and gestured, "Are we part of a grander gathering? That requires such opulent setting?"

"We are required in the Museum, gentlemen. And, Major, I would appreciate a reduction in the facetious commentary until _post_ discussion. Then you may heckle as you please."

"Dang, she got you there, sir."

The Major grunted and gestured for Moira to lead the way. Bradford and he trailer her like a pair of naughty school-boys after a Governess. They made their way down Exhibition road, passing only a few people, mainly porters and a single policeman. Moira led them into the museum not through the grand front entrance, but a side entry-way. A tradesman in overalls ushered them inside then led them through several twists and turns. This was not the museum proper that the general public would be exposed to; no these were the arteries that allow academia to flourish - thoroughfares of material, sustenance and scientific.

They came after a few minutes to a small laboratory setup - one wall was dominated by a huge dark-panelled cabinet, with fifty or so small drawers. A desk, inlaid with a leather top, sat at one end of the room, whilst a long work bench sat in the middle, like some strange variation on a dining room table. Anderson found himself pausing - he'd expected the thing to be dominated by alembics and gas burners. Instead there were trays of seemingly organic components, rocks, even the odd document.

"Impressive. So, which bigwig does this place belong to then?"

Moira paused as she approached the desk, then turned to smile at Bradford, "Me."

Anderson blinked and he saw Bradford goggle, "Excuse me ma'am, but surely? I mean, not meaning to disrespect, but, well…"

She sighed, "For such self-acclaimed and far sighted men, you are both exceedingly disappointing. A woman is more than capable of achieving a doctorate _and_ advancing. Even with you hidebound institutions across the continent. I studied under Mary Somerville and Elizabeth Garret Anderson. A relative of yours, Major?"

He harrumphed and gave a short nod. "Father's side, cousin of cousins I believe, I stand suitably admonished, _Doctor._"

Moira nodded curtly, then placed her clasp on the desk and rang a bell. A porter appeared and nodded at the men, "Yes'm?"

"Gustav, could you please fetch a pot of tea. I feel the gentlemen will require it."

"Yes'm".

Major Anderson composed himself and placed the cane in the umbrella rack by the door, then removed his gloves and hat. Bradford did the same, sticking his gloves into his jacket pocket and tossing the hat onto a hook. The Major noted that Moira had moved to the other side of the large table. Anderson noted something large and low covered in a sheet in the middle - about five feet long and three wide by his estimation. Moira regarded both of them.

"I am expecting another few attendees, but they have already seen what I need to show you, Major Anderson. Captain Bradford is here to corroborate this and to illustrate, along with myself, the impact of these discoveries _and_ breadth of their implications."

She pulled the sheet away from the item and Anderson practically stumbled backwards. His heart-rate flushed and he grasped for support that wasn't there. Bradford was suddenly beside him, concern etching his features. Moira seemed shocked too. Anderson couldn't tear his gaze away from the _thing_ on the table. The _thing_ in the tank of formaldehyde.

It had no mouth. It's eyes were black and pupil-less - and utterly blank. The head was a grotesque shape, enlarged and bulbous. The limbs seemed wiry and reminiscent of a monkey. The skin, even through the yellowing shade of the preservative fluid, was unmistakably _grey_.

"I killed them all? I thought I killed them _all._"


	3. Chapter 3

"-or Anderson? Are you ok?"

He managed to get his breath under control and shot Moira a venomous look, "Is this some sort of _joke_ to you?"

Bradford steadied him again and patted his shoulder, "Easy, sir, easy. What's got you so riled?"

Anderson pointed a shaky finger at the _thing_, "I killed those. All of them. After they butchered… butchered everyone."

Moira and Bradford exchanged glances, and she gestured for Bradford to follow. They moved back to the desk, where Anderson was deposited into one of the leather chairs. Bradford leaned against the desk itself, whilst Moira sat in her own chair. The porter returned and Moira beckoned him over.

"Gustav, be so kind as to also raid Andrey's private stash. He won't mind and if he says something, remind him he owes me for breaking the last microscope, _ja?_"

The man nodded and vanished again, leaving the teapot and cups on the desk. Moira leaned forwards.

"I was not expecting that reaction, Herr Anderson. I had been told you would be a man sympathetic, but this is… interesting."

The Major took a breath and narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, "I am not inclined to exactly divulge that, considering you have a ruddy _monster_ in your office."

Bradford chewed his lip and shrugged, "You want to know why? 'Cos my boys and I shot it."

Anderson stared at the American, "I don't recall you being in South Africa five years ago."

"Wasn't. This one's from New Mexico."

Moira stood and poured a cup of tea out, then proffered it to Anderson, "I believe you are owed full disclosure, Major. I.. .apologise for the reveal. I had intended to impress upon you the eldritch nature of what we will discuss; I was unaware of your prior encounters."

Anderson sagged a little, "No reason you would be, Doctor. After the absolute debacle with Cetshwayo any report out of Praetoria was redacted and parsed through God knows how many clerks. Anything beyond strange or that could destabilise things further… flagged."

He shrugged and Bradford nodded, "That's why you're a prickly sort around military, right?"

Anderson tilted his head, "Only partly. Hell, I only told them half the truth - I mean, really. Gremlins? Stealing corpses and men in the night? I'd have been discharged, my reputation tatters. As it were, it's taken them this long to bother checking on my current trajectory."

"Hmm." murmured Moira, "So, the beast?" Anderson eyed her, then let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"So, back before the Boer showed us how to actually fight in the Veldt, we had a really _really_ unnecessary spat with the Zulu. You remember Isandlwana? Well, I was there, one of a handful to get out. Bloody mess. Hard to believe it was only, what, 6 years ago. So, there I was, newly minted Major. I had requested to go with Chelmsford after what we thought was the main body of the Zulu. Well, turns out they were craftier; I had my suspicions - the tribesmen of the Veldt are a clever lot. Capable too. We assume so much, assume our guns and canon make us invulnerable. That our technology and history make us unassailable. They put paid to that idea; all it takes is a poorly prepared position and you are done, sir."

He took a sip and Bradford crossed his arms, "Read about that at College. Case study in defense planning. The instructors weren't exactly charitable to you boys."

"Or lack thereof sir. Chelmsford left a Commissariat chap, Pullaine, in charge and ignored doctrine. Tried to blame the poor bugger, dead though he was, after the fact. The chap, he did his damndest. We did ask why he didn't leave I or one of the Infantry in command… all about seniority. You know, "when did you Commission' and that rot. But that isn't the main thrust, no. The Zulu routed the place. Let me tell you, an Army without command is a brawl. And the Zulu can brawl. It was me, some fellows from the 1st and 24th of foot and a few of the Natal Carbineers. We fought to the edge of the camp, but no sign of Chelmsford. So, we did what most sane men would do, we moved off fortified position. Whole camp was too spread out, too many Zulu. confusion - quartermasters not sending out ammunition. The Zulu withdrew and we had to foray back into the camp to resupply. Carnage doesn't do it justice."

He glanced back at the table, "And that's when those things decided to make a show of it."

Moira nodded, "Go on,"

"It was dark and we knew Chelmsford would be back. But being out on the perimeter meant being vulnerable without a wider camp to cover you as well. So…. we went back into the charnel pit. Did what we could in the fading light. What they didn't tell you was that there were more survivors. We managed to get at least twenty men, wounded, plus another ten capable bodies. God knows how many others were out there in the dark though. We could hear the moans, the screams - thought it was just men succumbing to their wounds. Whole hospital tent had been burnt to the ground, so no chance for those on the edge. First I knew it was something else was one of the Natal lads going down screaming. His face, burned right off. No idea where they came from, thought they were throwing firebombs. Lost seven of the 1st and 24th fellows. Then I watched as another Carbineer just put his own rifle under his chin and pull the trigger. I didn't even know their names, half of them. Just more men to add to the ledger."

Bradford was nodding, his face pale, "Holy Mary, Mother of God."

"I took a shot or two at the shadows, winged one of them. Don't know how they scream without a damnable mouth. Watched them go. Haven't a clue what they were after - think they were looting of all things. One of the Natal said they were Jackal-Demons, or Anansei gone dark," he shook his head, "Curse me for a fool, followed them. My blood was up. We'd survived a whole damn Zulu onslaught just to get murdered my a group of imaginative baboons? Saw them vanish into a cave. Went in. Followed them through the caverns until I got stopped at a door. A bloody _door_. Found another way round, in the dark, through a crack. Got a vantage point - some cave, threaded through with strange tables and those _things_ scuttling here and there. They were dragging men - alive and dead, feeding them into machines. The bastards didn't make a sound as they were doing it. All I could hear were the shrieks of the men."

Anderson set the cup down, his hands shaking, then stood and walked back to the table. He stared long and hard at the creature. Bradford and Moira exchanged glances then joined him.

"I got out of there - couldn't do anything. The strangest thing though… these things didn't act as if they had a purpose. Reminded me of watching someone at a mill, back home. Woman who'd worked there for years. She just moved like an automaton, eyes glazed over, not there. These _things_ did the same. Every movement so strange and yet still somehow uniform. Regimented but not in a way that comes from drill. More like ants. I can tell you, I made a sharp departure as soon as decorum allowed. Tried explaining what I'd seen; was thought I'd been driven battle-mad or caught the sun. Had to plead my case to not be summarily discharged there and then. Managed to claim it'd been night terrors and fortified myself, that it must've been a 'heathen ritual' I'd seen in the dark - that went down better.

Anderson sighed then glared at the glass case, turning his gaze to Moira, "Wasn't until the end of '79, once we'd routed the Zulu… I took some of the Engineers, a few of the infantry lads as well, on what I told the Colonels was a bit of an exercise, a reconnoitre of a stash. Went back to that damnable cave. Some of the lads, well, they'd been there too, or seen something just as queer around the edges of the camps. You get deserters now and then but they knew better. Lads had been taken."

He stopped and breathed heavily. Bradford frowned, "What happened?"

"We went in, of course. Twenty five brave souls on what I thought was a mission of mercy. Had the engineers put charges at the entrance, infantry dug in outside. Led the rest down. Battlefield was cleared by then - oh there were still the burnt bits of tent and melted canon. Some of us British folk, the Zulu, the locals - everyone took their carrion. Perhaps even those troglodytes took a few as well - it isn't as if you post guards on an empty battlefield these days."

Bradford leaned forward, "How come no one else found this cave of yours?"

"Not a bally clue. Hardly a well travelled place; there were some woven fetishes here and there, those marble talismans a few of them carry, hung from trees. I think the locals _knew_. Mind, we nearly didn't find it ourselves, even though I left markers, ties the lot. And what we found…."He exhaled, "These things are not bloody baboons. Steel doors. Metal floors. And death. Five men down in the first three minutes. Spalding was the first - got hit in the arm, thought it was a glancing shot. Until he started screaming.

Anderson's eyes went glassy as he recalled the sight, "His arm… just fell off. The flesh was burned, dissolved, right through. Had two chaps try to drag him out but he died outside. At least he was in the sunshine. Pendllebury went next, took a shot to the head, vapourised. At least it was quick. Skinner, Farrelly, Johnson, Rutherford, Smith, Tanner, Roberts, McCready, Greg, Ingleby. Hell, we barely got past the first door. I thought it was a Boer bunker of sorts. But the weaponry they had..., it was like Satan himself was spitting at us, throwing hellfire and madness. I saw Johnson shoot Ingleby in the back, then charge at Garrick. Men had to gun him down before he got the chance to bayonet someone. So, I had one of the engineers roll a barrel in there with a short fuse and we left. Lost five more getting out of the cave. We got out and torched the damn place."

"Normally I discourage the use of explosives when dealing with entirely new fauna…" muttered Moira, which earned her a frown from Bradford.

"I thought we got them all. Or at least sealed them up tight. Had the men do a search for two days, checking for other caves, holes, burrows _anything_. No, we got them, Got a glimpse of one of them before we sealed the door. Bigger than the others. Well, its head was at least." The major shook himself and looked at the other two, "Wrote it up after talking with the NCOs… we called it a cache of weapons that was booby trapped; likely unsavoury elements and that we elected to deny the supplies rather than become entrenched. I only mentioned the things once, in a Mess in Aldershot, after a regimental dinner. An anecdote of the most queer thing we'd seen. I… embellished certain bits, left out others. But still, never quite the same. Of course, I had a bit of a reputation then, anyway. But that's a different story."

Bradford nodded, "Queer is right, sir. We were out tracking down a smuggling ring on the border, rumours of Mexican sponsors. Found a weird cave of these things… sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

"Yeah, real weird. They were in this cave, but it was… open, dusty. Seemed abandoned. They were in jars, like some sort of lab. There was metal but it was all broken, smashed to pieces. Broken jars too. Think they were nearly dead. Except for two that took a liking to my boys. Got three of them cold, watched them just melt like they were… water. One of them we just riddled, it was so much dog chow. That one one of my boys nailed it from fifty metres down a dark corridor."

"Which brings me to my next query - why is it here and not in one of your own museums?"

Moira gave a small smile, "Because no one there believed them. Thought it was a dressed up monkey. Not until they brought it to me after one of my talks to a women's institute. I think they were desperate. And frankly, it was my good fortune."

"Fortune, eh?"

Moira gave him a tight look, "Contrary to popular belief, science is not about inventing the next tonic to sell to the addled _bauer_. _Nein_ this is a chance to understand something. And to perhaps prevent something," She gestured to the thing in the glass, "What are they? Where do they come from? What do they _want_?"

Anderson's jaw set, "Several volleys of the best of British Infantry fire, if I have my way."

Moira cocked her head, "And that may be necessary, Major. But there is a chance to _learn_ as well. Now, I promised full disclosure. Again, I apologise, perhaps we should have started with that, rather than my flair for the dramatic."

Bradford snickered and shrugged at Anderson's weary glare, "What, it's funny in retrospect. You ever seen a Prussian make a joke?"

"_Swiss."_

"Eh."

Anderson shook his head and followed Moira as she led the pair of them out of the room, but not before tugging the sheet back over her prize. Her attitude, Anderson noted, was quick and clear. There was a certain look she gave the creature though, like a child with their present on Christmas, ready to tear it apart for the gift within.

The good Doctor led them through to a meeting room. The room was darker, with the curtains drawn and the shutters closed, clearly for the sake of privacy and the prevention of overwatch from the terraced houses and offices opposite. The gas lamps gave a gutter dim light. The room had several people waiting, a pair of uniformed gentlemen standing by the fireplace, with three more sat in chairs at the end of the table. The large wingback chairs further obscured their occupants, with the ruddy light of the gas lamps casting shadows over the occupants.. One of them leaned forwards, light reflecting off a bald pate, but the wings prevented too much detail from being revealed.

"_Hello_, Major," intoned the voice. It was deep, with a strange burr to it. American? West Country? "In light of the recent discoveries, the Council has been convened to discuss a possible contingency plan. We would like to discuss your willingness to lead this initiative."


	4. Chapter 4

Anderson looked around the table, slowly, chewing his lip slightly, his eyes narrowed. He blinked and tapped his cane against the side of his shoe. He shot Bradford a glance - the man had moved near the door and only offered a shrug in return. Moira meanwhile had set herself into a chair, midway between him and the shadowy councilmen.

The two military men moved away from the fireplace - one wore the regimental attire of the First Kings Dragoon guards - all red tunic, gold braid and a sash across it. The second was a Grenadier, a man he didn't recognise. They were both Colonels - the epaulettes and sleeve adornments made that clear. He stared at the Dragoon for a moment and offered a small smile.

"Richard. I see they promoted you. Many congratulations - I should have noted it in dispatches."

The man nodded and gave a small smile, then took his seat, "William, good to see you. Glad you've decided to have an earwig on all this japery. Phillip here thinks is a cockamamie scheme by the Colonials, of course."

The Grenadier, all grey mutton chops and cold eyes regarded Anderson for a moment, "Ah. The monkey's paw. Richard, you didn't say we were getting the Aldershot bad luck charm."

Anderson twitched only slightly, "Do excuse me, _sir_, I am not in uniform. However, if I were, I fear you'd have to upbraid me for failing to salute the commission. If there is one earned sat before me, of course."

The man, 'Phillip', bristled and half rose, "You damn counter-jumper, I'll not sit here whilst this ignominious stain is…"

"Sit down Phillip, before I make you," Richard's voice was calm, laconic. The Grenadier stiffed and glared at his companion, "William is an old friend. Can hardly blame a man for the poor decisions of his commanders. And he took an assagai for me, so show the man some respect. _Thank_ you."

William inclined his head then drew a chair out slowly, deliberately. He folded his hands on the table and looked at the Chairman, "So, sir. I am summoned from my breakfast, shown some hideous gremlin and now, if you'll forgive me, I am sat in honest-to-god _secret bloody society_."

Bradford snickered from the door and even Richard let a small smile cross his face. The Councilman nodded in the shadows, "I can understand your scepticism. We represent a number of interested parties - representatives from nations, from private enterprise and from the military. People who have concerns about what the next war could look like."

William nodded slowly, "Forgive me, I known Richard of old. I can understand his presence, to a point. Phillip…?"

"_Colonel_ to you, _Mister _Anderson."

"Still got my commission, Colonel. And you still have the advantage of me, small though it is."

Richard leaned forward, "Tasseter, Baron."

"Thank you sir. Well, Colonel Tasseter, I haven't the foggiest why you're here. I doubt you are at all interested," The man scowled and leaned back, not answering, "Very well. So, an alliance of common interest against, what? Cave dwelling troglodytes and bumpkins?"

One of the other figures leaned forwards, revealing a face with a neatly trimmed beard and darker features - Spanish? French? The man slid an envelope across the William. He opened it and slipped the contents out. There were four photographs and a few long-hand reports. William had to stop himself gasping at the photographs.

One was of a room - the monochromatic nature made details more difficult to make out, but it was angular, with strange beds jutting from metal walls. Pipes looped into drainage canals on the beds themselves. And on the beds were men and women - some in strange garb, likely the indigenous people; others wore suits and military garb.

Another picture was of several of the strange little creatures, an example of which was floating in Doctor Vahlen's lab. They were lined up on a white sheet, quite dead, with several Indian men in turbans and rifles squatting behind them.

Another one showed a crevasse, at the very bottom of which could be seen one of the creatures near an open door. The creature was dead, but the areas was clearly inaccessible.

The final one showed a picture of Mars - very grainy, clearly taken through a telescope and not well adjusted for the lenses. Anderson frowned and looked up.

"So, more gremlins. Easily killed it seems. And a picture of what I assume to be Mars. Forgive me, sirs, but I am not leaping to any drastic conclusions here."

Tasseter snorted and leaned forward, "isn't it obvious, man? Seditious elements! Some form of trained natives, or lost tribe, being ferreted away by God knows who. For God knows what purpose."

Anderson had to concede there was _something_ to that. He glanced at the reports - dry recounting, commentaries on the strange crypts and the status of the survivors within. If they could be called that. Several, it seemed, were located in whatever counted for institutions for the mentally impaired in the locales - convents, asylums, sanitariums or just left in the street to wither away after their "rescue."

What did strike him were the listed locations in the reports - Central India, Kenya, Siberia! These things weren't just an African issue. He looked up at the Chairman.

"Alright. Strange events certainly. But why all this? And why Mars."

Tasseter again, "I just said."

Anderson looked at him and raised a hand. The man turned purple, it seemed. Moira it seemed was distracting herself but a smile had edged onto her face. Clearly she was _not_ a fan of the man, "All I see is a bunch of static little monsters. No coordination, as yet."

The Councilman spoke with his gravelly tone, "What you see here is a sudden surge in activity by creatures of an unknown origin. Our…. esteemed Doctor Vahlen has several theories. We have observed a common pattern among these Visitors. They are primarily focused on gathering material, primarily living creatures, for apparent study. Research indicates they have been active for some time, but have recently had a surge. Reports from across the globe indicate sightings far in excess of what we have observed."

Bradford chimed in, "Anderson said these things acted with a single purpose, like ants."

"Indeed. These, _Insectoids_, are focused and diligent. However, erratic behaviour has been observed."

Anderson nodded, "They were very… uniform within their bases. But outside, they were more like dogs - circling, trying to find an opening in our lines. It wasn't like fighting men, more a pack."

Moira coughed, "I find the term insectoid to be factually incorrect - the specimens exhibit superficial _mammalian _features and are limited to four limbs."

"Yeah, but _mam-ay-le-oyds _doesn't exactly roll of the tongue, all easy, now does it ma'am?" drawled Bradford. Moira sighed.

"I understand you have your limitations, _Captain_. I will accept this coarse violation of the scientific nomenclature. But I protest."

"Duly noted, _Doctor_ Vahlen. Your work is a credit to your sex and to our endeavour," intoned the Councilman, "But to continue - there is an overarching pattern, an intent. What that is in the long term, we cannot be certain. But it is inimical to human life in the environs near their bastions. As to your second query: Mars. An increase in seismic activity has been recorded by your Greenwich observatory," the man pronounced the word "Gren-Witch", which grated a tad, "As well as by astronomers across the globe. We have received reports, telegraphed to our agents, of notes shifts in the canals on the planet."

Anderson nodded slowly, "So, you believe these things are Martians? Seriously, sir?"

"No. We believe Mars too far to pose a realistic origin. These beings acting in such a way at the same instance _could_ be coincidence, or it could be a reaction."

Anderson shook his head, "Reacting?"

"Like the tides to the moon perhaps," suggested Richard, "Or a woman to her…" he quieted at Moira's withering gaze.

"Indeed. We have one report from a man we believe you are acquainted with - Professor Ogilvy, of the Woking observatory? Yes," the shadowy figure lifted a piece of paper from in front of him, "Yes, '_the chances of anything coming from Mars, are a million to one_,' he said. We are inclined to believe him - no industry on this planet, at the peak of our capacity, has proven the ability to reach the stratosphere, let alone the cosmos."

Tasseter snorted, "Precisely, unless one was to try to take a balloon across there, but I doubt we'd find anywhere with enough ruddy puff."

Anderson was quietly amused at the faintly exasperated glances shared, even by the slightly obscured councillors. However, he focused on the man at the end of the table, "All well and good. As I said, some scary monkeys from folklore and bad weather on a planet hardly seems to be high on the agenda of the Freemasons. Unless it's been a quiet year in banking and I didn't notice?"

"Very droll, _Major_. No, we require someone to oversee military and civil actions to counter any potential threats these beings could pose. A committee, if you will, with funding and backing to investigate across the globe."

Anderson sat back and exhaled, "Quite a blank cheque there, sir. But you have two very… _capable_ men here. Why me?"

There was a brief moment of silence, quickly filled, "You have experience, capability and command respect. You are not of such senior rank that you will be missed from the public eye. And you have prior experience."

Anderson's eyes narrowed, "You knew about South Africa?"

"We had our..._suspicions_. Well founded, you will agree."

"And what is the name of this _committee_ that you are all a part of?"

"We are the _Exemplo Aliud Libertatem Trimphare _\- we have always looked for ways to preserve mankind against extremes. These visitors present a chance in the nature of the world. There is a change in the way the world conducts war, as it becomes more connected. You have seen the results of nations with more in the ways of technology coming into contact with those lower down the tree. It does not end well. We want to avert that."

Anderson nodded slowly, "How? By rooting out these things? Killing them all?"

"Whilst they are strange, they are in possession of technology that seems beyond us. Or beyond what those of us _here_ know. We must know whether there is some hidden agenda at work here, one of the players of the Great Game moving an unknown piece onto the board. Or we should countenance the concept of a new player entering the field."

"So, they are either colonists or to be colonised, that's our choice? Their wealth to be plundered?"

Tasseter leaned forwards, "Sounds like you sympathise with the little heathens, Anderson."

He regarded the man with a tight smile, "I can hate without wanting to be a vindictive _arse_, sir," he looked back at the Councilman and was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head, "i'm afraid my answer is a no, sir. This is a _generous_ offer, but I am enough of an old soldier to recognise dead ground. The remit is too large, the objective too opaque. And I fear I am seen as a somewhat expendable element for a venture that, if you will forgive me for saying, seems somewhat of a flight of fancy."

The Council members began muttering, but the lead man held up a hand for silence, "Go on, Major,"

"So, there are strange creatures across the planet. So? Darwin showed there to be finches in the Galapagos. We have finches here. Apes roam Asia and Africa; Tigers, Lions. We have pyramids across every continent - do we claim them to be built by the same hand? No, sir. This all seems tenuous. Fascinating but tenuous. And you don't need someone like me to read reports from some over enthusiastic archaeologist fawning over fancy ruins in some hellpit of a nation."

Tasseter seemed to be unable to settle on being furious or smug. He compromised, "Told you all we need a chap with proper backbone, pedigree, can follow _orders_."

Richard harrumphed and frowned at Anderson, "You do know your upward career in the military is, well, somewhat stunted. This is a good chance to move up in some small way."

Anderson smiled and splayed his hands, "Not all of us were cut for high staff office, sir. But I fear that, despite you good intent, this is something of a poison chalice. What if it finds nothing? What if all these things are are a hideous malformed pygmy tribe? Because I can tell you we found no weapons on their bodies. Just broken metal. Monkeys with firebombs in a lost burial tomb."

Anderson stood abruptly, leaning a little on his cane. He pushed down hard, to stop it rattling in his hand. Moira stood, a frown creasing her face and an expression of… what? Disappointment? Frustration? Maybe her position wasn't as assured and she'd wanted an ally in this male-dominated arena. If not a woman, then at least a more sympathetic ear?

Well what did he owe them? This morning he'd been looking forward to doing the crossword on the train and maybe taking cigars in the mess back in Aldershot.

The room was silent, then the Councilman spoke, "I understand, Major. However, we won't accept this as your final decision just yet. Please, take a few days. Think on it. Captain Bradford, if you would show Major Anderson out? Doctor Vahlen, please stay. We have other matters to discuss."

Outside the doors the air felt slightly fresher. The room had had a strange cloying sense to it - inlaid oak and a roaring fire in the middle of a warm day added to it. Anderson leaned on his cane and let out a breath. Bradford watched him, "You ok? This thing has you rather, rattled, sir?"

Anderson gave him a brittle smile, "Rattled? No. Just don't want to be taken for a fool. Had my fair share of… unfortunate expeditions."

"About that," they walked towards the stairs at the end of the hall, "What'd he call you? Monkey's paw?"

"Ugh, bastardised myth. A talisman that brings misfortune despite promising riches. In summary, I'm associated with loss. After we won against the Zulu I got shipped to bloody Afghanistan - I think that was Chelmsford getting me out of the way. I was there at Maiwand, attached to the 66th. The battery I was nearest was engaged and we made a retreat. Left the poor buggers to die a Khrig. After that, when we retook Kandahar. Then I got 'forgiven' and returned to the regiment in South Africa. And then the ruddy Boer War happened."

He rubbed his eyes and Bradford gave him a sympathetic look, "Only a couple of hits, though."

"That's all it takes. That and some officers with an axe to grind. I don't begrudge to be fair. Lots of bad blood after that affair. Utterly unnecessary. Some abject dunder raised an illegal tax and the Boer reacted. And they showed us. Ever face a Boer commando group? Irregulars, they don't form lines, they don't march neatly towards your entrenched position. No. They snipe at you like it's grouse season. But they do it from undergrowth, with inferior weaponry. They adopt the principle of 'every shot counts.' What use is a volley of fire against foliage, man? So, after some failed attempts, off we went out of the Transvaal. Well, nominally. But still."

He chuckled lifted the cane, leaning it against his shoulder. Bradford shrugged, "Still seems unreasonable. And you're expecting similar? Seemed like you knew that Colonel - didn't that help?"

"Richard? Ah, yes, Richard Marter. Knew him at Ulundi. He was a Major then. Fell off his horse. Took me, an infantry lad, to save him. Well, he saved me just as much in that melee."

"A cav man you like? I'm shocked?"

"I can like individuals. It's institutions I have issues with," Footsteps behind them made them turn, "And speak of the devil."

Colonel Marter approached and nodded at Bradford, "If you wouldn't mind Captain, I'd like a moment with my old friend."

"Of course sir," Bradford headed down the corridor and loitered at the stairwell. Marter looked at Anderson and tutted.

"A golden opportunity, William. Really, why?"

"You are buying into this cockamamie claptrap?"

"Perhaps. I think there is something here, Bill, something we need to grasp."

"And what is that?"

"An advantage. A chance for once to be ahead of the game. The Empire is swatting at flies; insurrection, jealous rivals, overgrown businesses. Did you know the East India Company ransomed a naval vessel in Khartoum? Getting to big for their boots."

"If this is so important, where's the minister? The Wolseley ring? The Roberts ring lot? They vying over this excellent opportunity?"

"I'd be lying if I said they weren't curious."

"And there's my point, Richard. This goes well, they'll swoop in and give it to a crony. It goes bad or is seen as yet another campaign drain, whoever is in charge will get the short shrift. As you said, I'm on thin ice as it is. Can't a man just fade into quite insignificance."

"Oh tosh, William. You're spooked, I'll grant you that. But you never ran from a good fight."

"Is this what it is? Hunting gremlins in caves? And hoping their tombs yield up a cavalcade of what? Another archaeological find?"

"There is the risk - what if they are a new threat? Or some new weapon secreted by forces unknown."

Anderson deadpanned, "Really?"

Richard cracked a smile, "Well, had to see if that one would work again. No, I doubt even the Russians have the reach for this. Or the Austro-Hungarians for that matter."

Anderson reached out and clasped Marters shoulder, "As I said, I will think on it. But some similar looking tribes across a few countries, whilst interesting, is hardly cause for an Inquisition. So, you'll forgive my scepticism. If I find the waning days of training the next incumbent officers dull, then I will revisit."

"Consider quickly. We will be finding _someone_ to head this little venture up. And I'd rather we had a true born Englishman in there."

"Even if I am a, what was it he said, _counter jumper_?"

"Tosh. Your old man was a gentleman. And Tasseter is only _just_ a Baron, so hardly in a position."

"My father was the son of a grocer made good."

"And? My great grand-father was a privateer. Don't put stock in this tosh. Another reason I need a clear thinker in here, not a hidebound fool with delusions of grandiose empire."

Anderson blinked, "Well now, hardly what I expected, Richard."

"Piffle. Anyway, Bradford should have a contact card for the telegram. Does the Aldershot Mess have a telephone yet? I imagine not. Now, crack on, old boy and I hope I'll be getting a note saying you'll at least have a crack, what?"

"Let me sleep on it."

"Good enough. And next time you in town, let me know. Marjory would love to catch up. She has some lovely friends, you know."

"_Good bye Richard!_" This was delivered at a fast paced walk, Richard's booming chuckle echoing down the corridor. Bradford quirked an eyebrow.

"More of the same?"

"Indeed,"

"Well, I won't try to sway you. A man has to make his own mind, I reckon. Otherwise isn't he just another mans cats paw?"

Anderson nodded and smiled, "Insightful, Captain. What's your stake in this?"

"US Army pay is crap, pardon my frankness. I'm tired of cutting up Indians who just want to live. This way, maybe I can get some of the tarnish off."

Anderson nodded, not sure what to say? _You and I both, sir? _

They walked through the great hall of the main building, then exited from the front of the building this time, onto a paved plaza. Behind them , the grand arch of the museum loomed. The Captain harrumphed and offered a hand.

"A pleasure, Major. Only known you a day and you seem a stand up sort. Hope you consider their offer. I think they could use someone with prior knowledge."

Anderson chuckled, "Thank you Captain. But you haven't got a measure of my administrative capacity. I could very well be dire."

"Can't be worse than the Provisioners back home. As long as you haven't got any corned beef tins secreted on your person, we're good."

Anderson laughed, then touched his cane to his hat, and walked towards the cab-rank. He stepped into a handsome and tapped the roof, "The Metropole, please. Then Waterloo."

And with a clatter, the carriage set off. Bradford watched it go, then headed back inside. The doors shut with a _thunk._

* * *

Orbital assets report connection to monitoring and sample stations. Uploading data to **/self/**

_Report 1 - Location status_

_Report 2 - Capability update_

_Report 3 - Noted observations_

_Report 4 - Location data - Cultural development_

Report 1 - DOWNLOADING

Northern Hemisphere - 12 stations recorded as having active sensor readings. 86% loss of regional functionality

5 report **NULL** activity - locations **EXPUNGED [UNCONFIRMED]**

3 report limited active at locations

**\- 48.864716, 2.349014**

**\- 37.733795, -122.446747**

**\- 41.997222, 13.311239**

4 report unconstrained activity

**\- 30.358435, -81.606468**

**\- 56.065980, 49.773657**

**\- 36.693637, 97.096740**

**\- 8.971175, 9.437421**

Southern Hemisphere - 7 stations recorded as having active sensor readings. 74% loss

2 Report limited activity

**-27.189230, 135.675374 - ALERT local fauna hostile**

**-28.365210, 30.662686 - ALERT cave in reported**

4 Report unconstrained activity

**-12.802069, -71.934275**

**-2.978544, 18.971700**

**-2.943242, -48.265478**

**-74.578434, 40.720932 - ALERT temperature hazard detected**

Report 2 - DOWNLOADING

Assets: LIMITED

Fabrication: IMPAIRED (75% of locations exhibit impacted industrial capability)

Command: EXTANT - COMMANDER SUB VARIANTS ACTIVE

Aviation: **NULL**

_CLARIFY_

Aviation: Stations with avionics assets compromised due to: [theorising] tectonic abnormality

_RE-CALIBRATING_

_CONTINUE_

Surveillance: Active

Sample Status: Active [attached report for rate of acquisition of sample biomass]

Stasis units: Active [estimated current 53% margin of failure per salvaged sample]

Compatibility testing: Active

_CLARIFY_

Compatibility data pack dispatch. UPLOAD to Sol 4 **ARCHIVE**

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

Potential match for [sub folder] **PROJECT AVATAR. **Collating data for access by **CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD - PRIORITY THETA**

_CONTINUE_

Attrition of WORKER forms unsustainable - estimate drawn from combat casualty rate of ENCOUNTER locations with species labeled _**HUMAN.**_ Anomaly site: **27.189230, 135.675374 - **caveat to rule. Local Fauna designated as WARFORM variant.

Infiltration: Inactive

_CLARIFY_

Cultural data assimilation = 35% complete. ERROR: Wetware central processing in all locations. Maintenance ongoing

Request partition of SOL 4 Wetware for data data sets with Report 4 - strategic observations.

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**GRANTED**

Report 3 - DOWNLOADING

_**HUMANS **_most belligerent lifeform on SOL 3  
Severe damage to infrastructure between observation stations - cause of damage = variable. 85.3% of cases, cause is attributed to UNKNOWN seismic activity  
Growth of local CLONE STOCK limited due to damage to WETWARE processing units.  
Production of ground-side forces is limited  
Maintenance of facilities is limited  
Escalation warform printing: UNAVAILABLE  
7 locations compromised by _**HUMAN**_ activity  
Attrition of WORKER stock by _**HUMAN**_ activity

Report 4 - DOWNLOADING

MILITARY ANALYSIS - comparison complete

GOVERNMENTAL ANALYSIS - comparison complete

SOCIETAL ANALYSIS - comparison complete

Collectives of Threat identified

Military distribution - MAPPING ONGOING - LIMITED OVERWATCH CAPABILITY

Ground asset analysis - insufficient for immediate **EXPUNGE** option

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

WARFORM COMMANDER VARIANTS ONLINE - UPLOADING DATA - designate recipients: WAR COUNCIL

REQUEST: **TACTICAL ANALYSIS **

Identify: beachhead

Identify: defensible positions

Identify: priority targets

Identify: attack phasing / deployment

SOL 3 ANALYSIS indicates vulnerability potential. MESSAGE: Monitoring stations - ESCALATION: INFILTRATION

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

CONFIRMED RECEIPT

Change|Focus

Internal diagnostic on:

\- LAUNCH CANNON BATTERIES

\- LAUNCH BAYS

\- INVENTORY - SHUTTLE CRAFT

\- INVENTORY - CARGO SHIP

\- INVENTORY - BATTLE CRUISER

AWAITING REPORT.

**END**


	5. Chapter 5

Anderson barely registered the rest of the day - his baggage was collected uneventfully; the rattling carriage journey across the Thames to Waterloo was uneventful; the myriad boats and barges plying their trade along the river (to the point he could have probably walked across it without the use of a bridge, via some studious hops and leaps of faith) barely drew a glance from him.

The station itself was a bustling hubbub. He merely sat, lost in thought, in the waiting area - wooden benches crowded with commuters and holiday-makers ready to take the journey to the country-side.

He watched a few, absent-minded. A woman taking her brood on some sort of day trip, trying to marshal a trio of squabbling children; a man in a tweed suit and a monocle arguing with a steward; a young couple looking nervously about the station, clearly eloping. Frankly, if he'd been them, he'd have gone to Liverpool Street and tried to get to a port, rather than an island train, but then he was a pragmatist.

Wasn't he? Was he being pragmatic now? Well, yes, getting back to his posting - not gallivanting off on some damn-silly notion of occult superstition and supposition.

He watched a trio of men stalk across the expanse of the station. They wore funeral attire - top hat and tails. They paused as one and looked over in his direction then, as a triumvirate, they all reached up and touched the brims of their hats. All whilst staring straight at him. Anderson blinked then returned the gesture. The three men straightened and continued on their way. It left Anderson with a sickly feeling in his belly, as if someone had walked across his grave.

An announcement was called out by a ticket steward, announcing his platform and, suitcase grasped firmly, he headed through the throng, past the turnstiles and towards his train.

He was settled into one of the more plush cars - a six seater in first class. The conductor checked his stub and ushered him aboard, where he made himself comfortable. The journey would be a good two hours, barring track issues.

He unfurled the paper and began the crossword. A pair of women joined him in the carriage; elderly and quite, they were mostly concerned with their own gossip and left him to his paper after a short introduction. Soon, they were on their way, the gentle sway of the train soothing in its undulation. After a few minutes, Anderson found himself hungry, having realised he'd failed to buy any lunch.

With a sigh he folded his paper and laid it on the seat beside him, then stood. He slid the door to the cabin open and stepped into the corridor, then made his way back towards the buffet car. As he moved to the next carriage he drew up short as a figure emerged from one of the cabin-rooms. It was one of the strange be-suited gentlemen. As the man emerged, Anderson caught a glimpse of a slumped man and woman in the cabin, another of the strange men leaning over them. The view was obscured as the man in front of him clicked the door shut.

Anderson looked up and realised the man was taller than he, having to stoop slightly in the corridor. He also still wore his top-hat, which brushed awkwardly against the carriage roof. The man had a strange air about him - no real smell of anything. He wore dark glasses that hid his eyes and his face was part sneer part smile.

"Everything all right in there?"

The man tilted his head then made an abrupt nod that wobbled the hat almost comically, "Yes, _indeed_. Our travelling _companions, yes companions_. They have suffered a _swoon_. The stress, yes. Luckily, for them, yes, my colleagues and I are well _skilled_ at the medical practices of your _ah_, culture."

"Thought medical practices were pretty universal, old boy."

The mans' smile deepened, almost condescending, "There are _more_ nuances in the world, _yes_. More than smelling salts and _as you_ would, ah say, balancing the humours? No, we are quite sure they will be _well_ taken care of, then be well on their way at the end, yes, end of their, ah, _journey_."

Anderson looked at the fellow, then glanced at the door. Then he offered a brittle smile of his own, "Well, jolly lucky they have you about, eh? Goodness knows, I'd have been hollerin' and shoutin' if someone went all faint on me! Not something you get told to deal with, you know?"

The tall man nodded that sharp nod again, "Yes, _yes_. Of course. No shouting, if you please. We do not wish _disturbance_ during such a delicate time. Will you be, _ah_, on your way?"

"Hah! Yes indeed. Quite forgot myself! Forget me own head if it wasn't screwed on!"

The man leaned forward, and Anderson realised the man was staring at his neck. He caught a glimpse of something under the fellows collar - a sort of strange rash, but regular. He had a flashing image - a giraffe? Or some sort of reptile?

And then the man drew back and smiled, "Ah, yes, an idiom, Of course. You must _forgive_ me. My fellows and I…. we are from _elsewhere_. Yes."

"Ah, wondered why I couldn't place the accent. Americans?"

"No."

"Well, hope all goes well!"

Anderson stepped around the man and walked as fast as decorum and suspicion would allow to the end of the carriage, then dashed to the buffet cart. He collared the poor server there and asked in a hushed whisper for the guard. Luckily, he man was only in the cart to the rear, having not started his rounds proper. Anderson brought him up to speed.

"Major Anderson, Aldershot Training Wing. Noticed something untoward with a young couple in carriage E. Think they're being molested in some way by some strange fellows."

The guard frowned, "What do you mean sir?"

"Manhandled, man, abused."

"No, I mean strange, sir…"

Anderson looked at the man and settled on "Foreign."

The conductor nodded, "Always ruddy is. Right then sir, lead the way."

The pair of them wended their way back down the carriage until they reached the one where the strange man had been. The corridor was empty now and they checked the cabin. The couple were still there, much to Anderson's relief. But there was no sign of the trio of men. He looked around - the window was shut fast, there was no real sign of disturbance. He realised the conductor was looking at him askance. He sighed.

"They were here, sir. Maybe they've absconded," he looked at the couple then checked them - both were out cold, but breathing. Anderson stood up and realised his hand was wet - a faint red stain covered his fingers. On the mans neck was a puncture mark. He looked at the woman and saw something similar on her wrist. Quickly he beckoned the conductor over. The man frowned then nodded.

"Seems you were right sir - foul play. They alive?"

Anderson nodded, faintly impressed at the man's decorum. The conductor saw his look and shrugged, "Ten years as a sapper, sir. You get a bit used to stress on the job."

"Need to see if there's a proper doctor on the train. Then get these two poor devils off to check them. I'll look for the scoundrels."

"Right you are sir."

Anderson moved quickly. He pushed back towards his own cabin, then past it, towards the engine. It was only at the second to last carriage that he spotted one of the men, emerging from another cabin. The man fixed his bespectacled gaze onto the Major. Anderson realised he couldn't tell if this was the one he'd spoken to or another one. That unsettled him.

"You there! A word, if I may."

The man tilted his head then _snarled._ Anderson was taken aback. In a fluid movement the man had pulled some sort of medical tool from inside its jacket. The thing looked like a syringe of sorts, but with a nasty looking set of modifications. A hilt of sorts, for one. Anderson hefted his cane and yelled out, "I say, stop right there."

The suited-man charged. That actually wasn't _quite_ the word for it: he ran, but his limbs moved strangely, all sudden snapping movement. The syringe jutted out, a thrust by his assailant. Anderson managed to sidestep in the narrow space and cracked his cane onto the man's wrist. There was a sound like wet meat being slammed onto a chopping block; but not the crack of hardwood on bone. The man didn't even fumbled. Instead he tried to re-position to stab Anderson again, his arm moving into a backward jab, the syringe flipping around in his grip.

William used his cane to push the gentleman away, causing the swp to miss him by inches. He took advantage and swiped at the mans face, but the gentleman reared back at an impossible angle - a normal man would have toppled, but this one rebounded, striking forward. Anderson only just managed to deflect the strike again with a parry. He jabbed forward, using his opponent's momentum against him and cracked the man in the jaw. The fellow shrieked at a pitch Anderson had never heard from a mans lips - it had a reverb to it, as if two voices spoke as one.

He watched as the man stepped backwards and saw his jab had done something awful to the fellows' jaw. But then he blanched as the man simply gripped his own jaw and seemed to _reset_ it with a faint crack. Then, with a snarl, the gentleman lunged at him. Anderson deflected a rapid jab but then saw that the man wasn't interested in fighting anymore. Instead, he pushed past Anderson and sprinted for the door. He swore and followed, barely keeping pace with the loping movement of the _creature_. There was no way this was a normal man.

At the carriage end, the gentleman found himself with only the coal-car and engine left to climb over. Instead, to Anderson's surprise, the gentleman merely turned and smiled. Then it _leapt_.

He dashed forwards and looked up, realising they were going under a small brick bridge. For a moment he lost sight then the train emerged on the other side. Anderson leaned out to the side of the train and stared back at the bridge. He saw three figures atop it, dwindling as the train pulled away. The three raised a hand in a jaunty wave, all moving at _exactly_ the same pace. And then a bend in the track took them out of sight behind a cutting.

Anderson ducked back inside and shook his head. _What in all the hells is happening._

The rest of the journey was uneventful, thankfully. The conductor reported the couple were fine, albeit a bit disoriented and dazed - consistent with blood loss, according to one of the doctors they'd found aboard. Anderson and the guard had checked the other cabins and public areas, just in case, even forcing the train to wait at Woking briefly whilst they saw to the safety of the passengers. The Major took the opportunity to send a telegram from the station ahead to Aldershot, requesting a meeting at the station in Woking as well as to put the guards on alert in the camp as well as to ensure the local constabulary were alerted.

In total there were another ten passengers suffering from strange examples of blood loss, delirium and reactions similar to opiate abuse. These were lifted from the train at Woking whilst a pair of bemused Policemen took statements. Anderson advised them to liaise with Scotland yard, a statement that drew faint sighs from the two officers.

Quietly, Anderson advised the guard to stipulate it was a freak case and to not be too emphatic on this point. The man agreed and after a delay of only three hours, the train was on its way again. William couldn;t help but stalk the train, on edge in case of another encounter. He'd seen the things exit the train rather dramatically - no reason they couldn't replicate the feat in reverse.

The train was held at the station smf Anderson waited, case in hand. Later into the afternoon his batman arrived atop a rickety wagon, clad his slightly ill fitting infanteers uniform. He was accompanied by a corporal in the uniform of the Military Foot Police. Both men saluted and he returned the gesture with a grasp of his hat.

"Gentlemen. I trust my missive came through?"

"Yessir," that was his batman, Jefferies. A good lance-jack, if a bit dim. The policeman stepped forward - old for his rank, but then Anderson knew that he'd likely been recalled to the colours if he was a MFP.

"Got two, sir. One from the chaps in Woking too. We've got a description running down the trunk and back to Scotland Yard. A strange business, good job the conductor corroborated it."

"Sordid indeed. So, am I to brief you or to accompany you for questioning?"

The man looked shocked then shook his head, "No sir, not at all. I'm here to ensure your safe return to the Garrison, receive a debrief, then await any further instructions. The Sergeant major was very explicit on that front. Espionage, sir, that's the word being murmured. I believe the Commander would like a briefing at your convenience."

"Which means now, yes? Very well, if you could get me back to the Mess, gentlemen, I will ensure I am presentable."

It two hours to get to get to the South Camp, due to the state of the country roads and recent rainfall making the going slightly muddier than expected. They trundled past the barrier where bored infantry and artillery men stood guard. They offered up salutes as the trio rode past in the wagon, and Anderson paid them the respect due in return. At the mess, a squat, red brick building, he retrieved his case and bade the men wait for his return, to head towards the HQ.

The change didn't take too long. For one, his room in the mess was sparse - barely a bed, basin and wardrobe, so finding his uniform was hardly a challenge. Officer uniforms were only a tad more uncomfortable than civilian attire. Soon William had his navy blue trousers, red jacket and white belt and red sash in place, with his pith helmet under one arm. His sword he buckled to his belt, then, ensuring his boots looked suitably well polished, he stepped out of the front of the mess and let the men lead to the HQ.

The commandant, a fellow infantryman, was waiting in his office, signing off several reports. The adjutant showed Anderson in with a neat knock on the door to jolt the older man to attentiveness.

Anderson marched in smartly and stood to attention, waiting for the commander to finish his latest missive. After a few moments the man deposited the pen into an ink pot, then looked up at Anderson.

"William, quite a bit of a break you've had. Take a seat, none of this attention rubbish. Pomp and ceremony has its place, what."

"Thank you sir," Anderson relaxed - this was likely to not be an admonishment. Or an "interview without tea" as he'd heard one sergeant put it, a tad euphemistically, "And not quite what I was expecting from this morning."

"Quite. I've had a message from Richard Mather. Wants you seconded to his command, apparently. But only with your say so. And now I am told you were brawling on a train?"

"If i may sir, not brawling. Three vagrants attempted to molest civilians…"

The man waved a hand and chuckled, leaning back in his chair, "I'm messing with you, Major. No, I understand. Anything you can tell me? Useful intelligence?"

Anderson licked his lips and gave a half shrug, "I have no idea what they wanted, sir. Indications from medical staff we dragooned on the train, well… they claimed that the victims had been sampled, as it were. For what reason we aren't sure."

"Some sort of… germ warfare, perhaps?"

"As far as we were told, nothing had been added in, no hostile bacterium or deployment devices."

"Very strange. And how did these men abscond?"

"They… departed the train while it was in motion."

The commander blinked, "How?" Surely they'd be in dire straits. Especially if they were carrying… samples."

The Major pondered this, wondering how to explain the fact he'd seen a man leap twenty feet into the air. With pinpoint precision. "I am… unsure. They made their way onto a bridge. I assume they had an escape plan laid out in advance - a rope, or egress system."

"That would be the logical conclusion. Regardless, we haven't mobilised the garrison but we have alerted the guards to suspicious activity and spread a description, for what it is, to the men."

"Thank you sir,"

"Good. Now, regarding this Marter matter. Think hard on this. I know you're in a bit of an uncertain time, Major, but we do not let rumour define us. You're only seven months in here so a move may come across as unseemly - too ambitious to move up the political ladder."

"Understood sir. I was… disinclined to take up the offer."

"Oh?"

"Richard…. Colonel Mather is a good friend of old, but the offer was tenuous and sprung on me today. I was hoping to speak with you about it once I'd had time to get my head around it."

The older man nodded. "Makes sense, old bean. I know many of my ilk aren't the type to deliver mentoring, but one has to understand skill and merit in our roles. You've been an asset to the school of musketry and helped with the drilling something chronic. God knows the buggers need it. I swear, the recruiters are drumming in all the wrong places."

They exchanged a few more minor pleasantries; Anderson expanded a little bit on his fight, painting a picture of a skilled fighter, but not a _strange_ Commander seemed satisfied and dismissed him to "go about the remainder of the day". The adjutant waved him off, keeping his own head buried in reports of one kind or another. Anderson walked back to the mess where he found himself one of only a couple of officers in for dinner - dumplings and roast vegetables. He retired to the smoking room afterwards, sharing polite small talk with his fellows, as well as a pipe and small glass of port.

His sleep that night was a disturbed one. In his mind he saw green flashes, explosions rocking the horizon. A billowing cloud that coalesced into the face of the leering man from the train, all black spectacles and looming intent.

No, He did not sleep well at all.


	6. Chapter 6

The week passed mostly uneventfully - a routine of meals and drills, the mundanity of Garrison life ticked over. Polite conversation in plush armchairs over tea; watching men drill in the square, their hobnail boots clicking loudly against paved surfaces; the gentle, unsettling ribbing from junior officers. It was the Friday before anything substantive happened. The major was out on the ranges - several Companies of Infantry going through the various rifle drills, peppering distant straw men and sandbags with shot. He was walking the line behind the ranked men as the various drill instructions were called out by the instructor at the rear. The sun was creeping down towards the horizon as afternoon slid towards evening.

"At 300 yards, READY," all the men turned to have their left shoulders face down the range. At "2" they brought their rifles up; at "3" a round was readied and loaded, the cocking handle opening the chamber. At "4" they adjusted their sights. Anderson tapped his malacca cane into the palm of one hand as the sergeant-at-arms shouted, "PRESENT," and all the men on the line brought their rifles to their shoulders. There was a pause as the sergeant made them hold the heavy weapons steady before he then barked "2!"

The staccato of rifle fire echoed across the camp and the air was thick with grey smoke. The command "3!" came and the men returned the rifles to their side and ejected the rounds with a click of the cocking lever.

Behind the line, the soldiers waiting their turn at the line were going through dry-run drills in groups of ten, Corporals cursing their sluggishness, or singling out any fumbling trooper with a glare.

"Think the ruddy Zulu will give you a second chance, Hawkins? This ain't a bloody tombola you pillock! Ready, 2, 3, 4 - it's pretty bloody simple."

The Major paused and watched as a scrawny youth, his uniform clearly not quite grown into yet, hefted the rifle in his arms. The Martini-Henry Mk 1's were not light - solid wood and metal, they were effective close combat weapons in a pinch. The things were brutal in massed fire, sending .303 rounds down range in horrendous volleys. A practiced soldier could get 12 rounds down range in a minute. Of course, with the weapon, maybe only half of those shots would land; a steadier rate of fire would mean more accurate shots, but the rifle was designed to be part of a volley fire into massed enemy advance.

Idly, he pondered which of the troops out would be up for the School of Musketry in Hythe - get a decent cadre down there, pull together a solid marksman group to send back to Regiments as the designated skirmishers. He made a mental note to review the NCO reports following the day.

His musings were interrupted by the clatter of hooves and he glanced up to see the Commandants adjutant approaching. The man, Reynold Smythe, was a decent sort, someone who Anderson knew over the years. As an Adjutant, he was a Captain, but he also sat as the de-facto expressor of the Commandant's will on camp.

The man reigned his horse in and saluted. Anderson returned the gesture and smiled, "Reynold, what brings you down? Here to get your eye in?"

"I am a bit out of practice. Of course, should the Prussians roll into Dover they best beware, I'm a dab hand with a pen and a sheaf of paper these days."

Anderson chuckled, "Quite. As you can see, the gentlemen are doing well, we're upbraiding the stragglers and should have a decent review before the Sunday Mass. I trust that's what the Commandant's after?"

Reynolds shook his head, "Whilst that's a good thing, no. Got a telegram for you old chap, in the HQ. Sealed, Commandant wanted me to get you personally."

Anderson blinked, nonplussed, then took the telegram from the Adjutant. He read it quickly and frowned, then harrumphed, "Well, best get to the HQ. Mind if I use the telephone?"

In the HQ he found the telephone wired up in a private room. The operator connected him momentarily, her airy voice coming through with a faint crackle. The phone rang only once before a voice with a familiar American drawl answered, _"Major Anderson?"_

He sighed, "Captain Bradford. I did say I needed time to think. Harassing me is hardly going to make me more enamoured with your venture."

_"__Not that, sir. I mean, we heard about the escapade on the train."_

_How the devil did they hear about that? Hardly front page news._ "Oh? And what have you heard?"

_"__An altercation of sorts? Doesn't matter. I wanted to let you know - we got an update from one of the observatories here and my own people want me back in the US soon. We've got strange activity."_

Anderson massaged the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, then put the receiver to his ear again, "What, have they found mole people on the new Bakerloo excavation?

_"__No, But we've got activity on Mars."_

"Excuse me? I thought we went over that…"

_"__No, this is different. Eruptions. But not volcanic. They're regular. Scarily regular. Every two hours and thirty six minutes there's a green flare going off. They've only just noticed, but think it started a while back - no one was watching regular, like."_

"And you know this how?"

_"__Observatories just keeping a close eye, as this is the closest Mars has been for years in its orbit, apparently. Your man, uh, Ogilvy, was it? He's still thinking it's just seismic, but some people are getting antsy here. I just wanted to let you know."_

Anderson wasn't sure what to make of it, "Well, I appreciate the information. But I'm still fairly skeptical." Of Martians at any rate. More than enough suspicious bizzarity down here.

_"__Not the only thing though. Had some reports in Paris of strange sightings in the catacombs; Berlin has scattered reports of child abduction; hell, New York Times is publishing a piece about animal mutilations."_

Anderson had that same sense of unease again, "Is this any different from the norm? Terrible of course, but is there a definite pattern?"

_"__Nothin' concrete. Vahlen and the teams she's been provided… well, they think it's something. I dunno."_

"Second thoughts, Captain?"

_"__Well, I'm in waitin' on a train to Liverpool. Getting a boat. Gotta report back into Fort Reynolds. But keeping my eyes open. Reckon you should too. Somethin's happening, Major. Good luck."_

The line went dead. Anderson replaced the earpiece on the rack and sat in one of the chairs in the room. His stomach churned for some reason, a terrible sense of foreboding. He couldn't tell if it was just anxiety or true portent, ridiculous as that sounded. He shook himself and stood, heading back out into the sunshine and back towards the range.

Bradford click the hook of the telephone to hang up, then waited. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Anderson - the man had clearly seen some weird things in his tours and seemed a fairly thoughtful man. But he couldn't understand the fellow's reticence. The Bradford line had long had an attitude of "Get in, get it done." Seeing someone of that level of bearing, well, dither was frustrating.

The operator crackled and spoke over the line, _"Operator, how can I connect you?"_

"Thank you ma'am, uh I'd like a connection to 901 17th Street NW, Washington DC."

_"__Hold please, connecting you."_

He wasn't quite used to this instant communication; telegrams were his pace - gave you time to think up a response and marshal your thoughts properly. Some would say "dodge things" but he preferred to be prepared. After only a moment a different voice came over the line, the voice thick with a Boston accent.

_"__Yeah? United Services Club."_

"I need to talk to the Director."

_"__And whom, pray, is calling?"_

"Captain J W Bradford."

_"__Let me fetch him."_

There was silence briefly and another voice came across the line, older sounding, but with the bass of authority, _"John. Glad to hear from you. What did you find out?"_

"Enough. These Exaltation guys actually seem on the level. Took the finding more seriously than our own boys."

_"__Not surprising. If it doesn't open an old wound, the brass are hard pushed to care."_

"London's a good place for info as well, sir. These guys are well connected. They're, uh, keen on forming ties as well."

_"__Interesting. They know you're connection to military intelligence?"_

"Well, they haven't said but with where we are and what they have reach on? Wouldn't be surprised if they knew."

_"__Interesting. And our little grey friend?"_

"Not as unique as we thought. Met a Brit officer, Anderson. He's seen them, more of them. Killed a few by his reckoning. Som there's definite repeat occurrence."

_"__So, more opportunity to get samples, insights? But also more potential rivals?"_

"Exaltation said pretty much the same thing."

_"__Reality John. We're all friends now, but the world is a keg of powder. Gotta find advantages to ensure the Europeans don't start reminiscing about life over here."_

Bradford found that harder to countenance - the Brits were expansive and acquisitive, but for the most part they seemed to have gotten over the little divorce. He had no doubt there was some mad Minister with a plan. But they seemed fairly content to influence. Money spoke more than bullets to this nation. "So, what's your take on our involvement here?"

_"__We need someone on the ground. Seems Europe is where this Exaltation bunch are operating."_

"It's more interconnected, so that makes sense."

_"__Quite. I want you there for another couple of weeks. We may cycle in some support, let some more resources well, find their way to those shores."_

"So, a normal observation job?"

_"__Keep us informed of any findings. If it's locations, innovations, update as per dead drops and via the embassy. Keep it simple, though. Anything more, contact directly via telephone. We want to work with them, but if we can steal a march against the Imperial powers, we have to take it. That comes from the top, John."_

"Understood, sir."

_"__Good job. And good luck. I'll have Marco send across a dossier via facsimile tickertape."_

The line went dead and John stepped away from the booth. The telephone room was secluded with only another two phones in their own little rooms. The place was empty - not many people yet had regular call to use the telephony system; not at the current asking price. He stepped out, walked down the corridor and emerged into the station concourse at Euston. So, not getting the train to Liverpool in that case. He stopped by baggage collection and had his cases dispatched back to his hotel, then he caught a hansom cab towards Islington and the club there he had decided would be his drinking destination for the evening. Lamplighters were going about their work in the street as dusk fell. The sky was lit orange by the various lights of the city, but the stars were visible. Bradford looked up at the sky and watched, lost in thought. The way the stars moved was hypnotic.

He blinked - stars didn't move, though, did they?

He watched as one star grew bigger. Then another. And another. With a green flash, three lines of light shrieked above the city and plummeted to the ground. Even above the hubbub Bradford heard the explosion of the impact - he thought of Artillery on the plains and the image of fountaining dirt filled his mind.

All around people were exchanging shocked glances. There were some screams, but they were hushed. The city was confused. Even the handsome had stopped. Bradford leaned around and shouted at his driver, "Quickly man, after those stars!"

"You what mate? I'm not…"

"A guinea for you if you make it in fifteen minutes."

Without a word, the man cracked the whip and the cab rocketed away over the cobbles.

They veered through streets and across junctions - the city seemed at a standstill, confused. Carts milled about, people spoke in concerned whispers. Clerks and labourers peered from office windows and construction sites. And high above the city, the trails left by the falling stars lingered, dissipating only slightly. They had an oily green tinge to them, like scars in the air.

They rattled through Clerkenwell and Fuinsbury, weaving through the meat-markets and closing warehouses of Fenchurch and Farringdon. The traffic here was thick with large wagons and construction. Bradford abandoned the cab on the Commercial Road, flicking a Guinea to the driver with a shouted thanks.

In the distance he could see fires blazing and heard the panicked cries of citizens. Up ahead he could see the source of the congestion - a barricade, hastily set up by several of the local constabulary. People were craning their necks to see, but clearly didn't want to get to close. Bradford pushed his way to the front where a policeman eyed him warily.

"What's going on?"

"And you are, sonny-jim?"

"Captain Bradford, attached to the 66th on an exchange," _Thank you for the Regimental note, Anderson,_ "Can I help?"

The man shrugged nervously, "No idea. Some explosion in the Chinese quarter. Fire spreading in Limehouse, so reports say. Got volunteers evacuating where we can, but can't get too far into Limehouse. Got a few soldier boys in the area, arrived quick-like."

"Huh, well, point me in their direction."

"Your funeral. Them Chinese sods are an ungrateful lot. Saw three blokes get dragged off by some queer looking fellows with glasses. Clearly them Orientals have got no sense."

Bradford nodded, amazed at the ease with which they just let him through. It was only as he trudged in the direction of where the soldiers had apparently gone that he realised cordens were two way blockades - you kept people out. Or you kept things in.

And the area had been sealed pretty quickly - it'd taken half an hour at clip to get here, fighting through traffic. The local officers had done what they could, marshalling volunteers. He saw a few civilians run past, heading toward the corden. One shouted something in broad cockney that he didn't understand. So he pushed on.

As he neared the fire he saw a group of unformed men huddling in an alley, pressed against the wall. One spotted him and placed a finger against his lips theatrically, then beckoned him over. Bradford recognised the man - a Sergeant in the colours worn by the Marter fellow; he'd met him after the meeting with Anderson.

"Captain sir, That Ms Vahlen said you'd probably be joining us."

"Yeah, you guys got here dang quick."

"Only just. Came up from the Tower, got a message from that Vahlen to reconnoiter."

"Any idea what it was? Rocks from the sky?"

"Have a butchers round that corner sir. Freaky is all I can say."

Bradford moved down the alley, past the soldiers hunkered down there.. He peered around the edge of the warehouse and frowned. Up ahead was one of the objects - a strange grey thing, metal, with pipes extruding from it. But what the strange thing was the bodies. A good fifty people in various frozen poses, covered in a strange green film. The air itself had a mist quality.

"Careful, Captain," came the sergeant's voice next to him."Watts stepped into that while it was winding down, got coated and froze."

The sergeant pointed at a half collapsed figure; the red of his jacket could just be seen under the green film.

"Dear god," breathed Bradford.

"No god I know, sir. We stopped here to observe. Think it's cleared. But have to say, by the time we arrived, I think most of the party was over."

"Are they alive?"

"Not sure."

Bradford nodded, then fished his revolver from its holster under his jacket, "Think we best push on, Sergeant. You with me?"

"Don't see why not. You're with the Colonel, but we don't do any of that weird American army bollocks?"

"And what 'bollocks' would that be?"

"Losin'" crowed one of the soldiers, earning him a half-hearted clip round the head from the sergeant.

"Lad has a point."

Bradford ignored that and gestured for the team of soldiers to follow. The troops fanned out, splitting to either side of the road and they approached the object. The air was thick with green mist and it made his skin feel strange - numb. He could feel his lips flicker and his breath was shallow. He didn't want to breathe in too much of the muck.

He idly wondered about what they'd have to do after this - get Moira down to get some samples. She'd like that. And she was fun to watch when she got enthused. They'd need to move the wounded… incapacitated? The civilians at any rate. And the device itself would need inspecting.

"Halt" came the strangled voice of a trooper. There was the crack of a rifle and all the soldiers swung in that direction, weapons raised. The Sergeant, growling, stormed over to one of the lead men and shoved his rifle down.

"What are you playing at? You just gave us away!"

The soldier pointed down the street, "Saw something there, hunched over a body. Saw it stick them with something… but it moved so fast."

The sergeant tsked and turned away, "No one fires unless I give the word, understand?"

Bradford felt the need to correct the man about chain of command, but paused - he was an interloper here. Instead he moved to the shooter and peered at him, "What did you see?"

"Looked like a bloke. But the sort of bloke you mam tells you stories about. The ones who come to steal your teeth, or take 'way your soul. And it looked right at me sir. Too fast. Too bloody fast."

Bradford patted the man on the shoulder and moved on. He paused to touch one of the fallen bodies and frowned again. The body was warm. He checked the neck, or where he thought the neck was under the strange green cover and found a weak pulse. So, they were alive. But surely they'd suffocate under that?

That's for Vahlen to work out. We need to get this place cleared and secured. Then we can get these poor bastards out of here.

"Alright boys, move on up. Use the cover, the carts. I see… a warehouse up ahead, looks unlocked, got some movement."

The sergeant peered down the street, "Good eyes sir. I can only see shadows."

"Yeah, it's faint, but you can see movement through the windows - something moving around in there."

The sergeant nodded and gestured for his men to move. Five darted forward. One had a large shotgun, practically a blunderbuss, another hefted what looked like a portable mortar. And two men carried… was that a Maxim? Bradford looked at the Sergeant slightly incredulously. The man grinned.

"We were told to, uh what was the command from on high? Arm for bear, I think, sir. Well, I'd rather arm for levelling an entire street to keep us safe. Do you agree?"

"I concur most heartily, Sergeant. Let's hope it's unnecessary. Can your boys set up the Maxim with a view of the Warehouse entry?"

The sergeant gestured at the two gunners, "Delta section, get to it." They set to unfolding the tripod on the top of a wagon seat, giving it some elevation. To either side shops stood empty, their doors open and interiors dark. One of the mortar-men hefted his launcher and set up behind a dilapidated bench. An Omnibus stood to the left side of the wide street and the remainder of the soldiers moved to use it as cover. The warehouse had an alley next to it, but it looked clogged with detritus - discarded crates and rotting ropes. Bradford looked around and sniffed the air - the scent of tanneries was permeating the air, along with the smell of brine from the shipping. The buildings here were all industrial - even the shops seemed to be mere corner-stores, selling tobacco or utility supplies only. The scratchy chicken-scrawl (as he saw it) of Chinese writing adorned several buildings, with only cursory translations underneath.

But it was creepy how deserted it was.

One of the soldiers hissed something and beckoned to them. The Sergeant and Bradford advanced, leaving a pair of infantry to protect the flank of the Maxim team. They rounded the bus and drew up short. A constable was sprawled half on the bus. And he was a mess. His entrails left a horrible river of gore down the bus stairs onto the footplate.

"There's more, guv." said one of the soldiers. Two more passengers with similar wounds. But they were on top of a third who looked like he'd been bludgeoned to death instead, "These two 'ave got knuckles like fresh boxers."

Bradford looked at the cadavers, "What, you're saying they beat him to death and then… exploded?"

"Looks that way guv."

"And you know this how?"

"Butcher's boy, sir, before takin' the colours. Know what bruised meat's like. And seen a few rip carcasses pop in the heat. But this ain't like that - they got clawed at by somethin'"

Bradford looked around the street, "So falling stars and rogue damn tigers? No Zoo near here. Seen any stray dogs maybe? Could be… rabies?"

The men drew back a bit from the bodies and exchanged glances. The sergeant chuckled, "Don't spook my boys, sir. They'll never live it down if it gets out their all a bit squeamish. Now, enough lolly-gagging. Franks, Mitchell, up front, Roberts, Linklater, Paterson, Nicholson, follow on. Get to the door, enter by numbers. Don't shoot at shadows, use your dynamite if you see something untoward. Call out your sightings, alright? Sir, you hunker down upstairs on the bus, get a good view."

"Good suggestion, Sergeant. Have a couple of your boys stick here, we can provide another covering arc."

The sergeant nodded and peeled two more men to follow Bradford up. The stepped gingerly over the corpse of the constable and took up station on the upper level of the bus. The soldiers advanced and flanked the door. A couple took the knee directly in front and levelled their rifles. The Maxim clicked over by the wagon as the gunnery crew orientated to get a view through the doors, albeit at an angle. At their current position it'd likely just be suppression.

He watched as the lead soldier pushed the door open, a massive wooden thing. It creaked open. One by one the men darted through. All were riflemen, the mortar man sat next to Bradford, except for the elad chap with the blunderbuss. Bradford could hear the men calling out as they entered.

"Nothin'."

"Clear west side. Checking in further."

"Got half a bloody boat in here."

"Side door locked, no stairs I can see."

"Alright Derek, get yer eyes checked, found 'em."

Bradford pulled a small spyglass from his coat pocket and peered through it. He could see directly into the warehouse but only the arc through the main double doors. The large windows alongside were grimy but gave him some mediocre views. He could see the men checking boxes and heading for the stairs.

"Wait! Got someone! Back of the room!"

Bradford screwed the spyglass and could make out another figure, at the back of the warhouse, half concealed by a crate. He seemed to be just… standing there.

"Some bloody Chinaman. Oy, you… You commie outtie toot fuckin' sweet mate."

"Probably scared shitless, the gutless job stealing bastard."

The sergeant moved in front of the door and waved out at Bradford, "Want us to bring him out, sir?"

"Yeah," called Bradford, "Clear the area. Think it's a dead run. Just that weird cylinder. Maybe he saw something?"

The sergeant nodded and Bradford stood to head down, "You two, stay here, keep things covered."

"Aye boss." said one of the men. Bradford descended, once more dodging the corpses, and began to walk towards the warehouse.

He saw the sergeant turn, heard someone inside say something, sounded like "'sat in his hand?"

"You alright mate? You look a pit peaky! Hah, geddit?"

"Shut up Rob. Oi, mate, move it… you got someone back there wi- oh shit! BOMB!"

Bradford was at the door, he saw past the Sergeant, saw the man in the shadow, saw something else behind him.

And he saw the Chinaman raise the thing in his hand - a clay sphere which was fizzing. The sergeant had glanced back and swore, then shoved Bradford to the ground. There was a muffled BOOM followed by shrieks and cries of pain. The blast pepped the air with wood splinters and grit. Bradford hit the ground, winded, the Sergeant on top of him. The bigger man rolled off, groaning. Bradford sat up and cough, then checked the man.

"Only bruises, come on. Roll call! Sound off!"

"Franks here… Roberts has bought it, Linklater's out cold."

"Paterson here. Alright, but got some shrapnel in me arm, proper."

"Nicholson… What the fuck was that?"

Bradford was about to speak when a cry came from outside. He turned and saw the two men he'd left behind pointing down the street. Then something green streaked through the air and hit the mortar-man. Straight in his ammo pouch.

The top of the omnibus bloomed in a fireball, drowning the screams of the men out. Instantly, the Maxim opened up, the "chunk chunk chunk" of .303 rounds being spat down the street echoing off the buildings. Bradford heard something squeal - it sounded like a pig, or a cat. But not human.

Another shriek, this time from inside the warehouse. Bradford ducked back inside and saw something scuttle from the shadows. Nearby Nicholson was clutching his head, rifle forgotten at his feet. There was a crack as Franks here fired a round at the thing in the shadows. Bradford got an impression of…

A grey, bulbous head, dead eyes. Thin limbs.

"It's them!" he whipped his revolver up and cracked a shot off, Franks scrambling to reload. The sergeant next to Bradford hunkered down and brought his weapon up, then fired. The rifle retort echoed in the warehouse and was followed by another inhuman shriek.

"Bovingdon marksman champion three years running," muttered the sergeant with satisfaction.

Paterson levelled his blunderbuss and blasted at a crate, which splintered. Then another flash of green sliced through the air and he went down with a gurgling hiss. Another green bolt, then another. The men swore and dove for cover.

"They're flanking us, the bas-" that was Franks, his voice edged with panic. It was cut off as a small grey horror scuttled around the stack of crates and caught him in the chest with a blast from something on its wrist. The man went down, his eyes glassy and dead.

Bradford ducked down as a bolt fizzed over head, bursting against the brick wall beyond. He stared as the masonry bubbled and melted, running in red down the rest of the wall. Something loomed next to him - Nicholson.

"Get down man, you…" Bradford saw the man's eyes - they were glowing, "What in the hells?"

Nicholson raised his rifle - it swayed as if the man was unsure how it worked all of a sudden. Then the sergeant was there. He was up and tackling the dazed soldier to the ground. There was a thud as he planted a beefy fist into the soldiers jaw and Bradford saw Nicholson go limp. The sergeant turned and scanned the warehouse floor, then ejected the round from his rifle, slotting a new cartridge into place in a smooth movement. His rifle came up and there was another crack followed by an answering squeal.

Bradford leaned round a crate and fired off another round, which he saw wing one of the little devils. The thing hissed and limped to cover - they were clear then, not just animals.

The sergeant grunted and fired again, "Where are they coming from?"

Bradford shook his head, "No clue how many there are… wait, what's that?"

He saw it on the upper levels - it looked like the grey things but… bigger? It had darker skin and its head was ridged. It was squatting on the gantry above just… watching? He growled and raised his pistol, then squeezed off several shots, gratified when he saw the thing recoil and back away. His shots had gone wide but the thing clearly wasn't used to their weapons.

"Sergeant, gantry - think that's their CO. Can you take it?"

"Got the bugger," He sighted and fired then swore, "Thing's bloody fast, where'd it go?"

The man ducked as another wave of green was unleashed from the shadows. Bradford swore as he saw more shapes scuttling in - coming in through the grates in the floor and the vents at the back.

"Shit, they're going for a charge."

"Well, I'd say it's been an honour sir, but I hardly know you."

"Likewise. Let's die well at least."

"I'll drink to that. Come on you midget bastards, come and get us!"

With a howl the first of what had been termed _Insectoids_ launched itself over the barrier. It loped over creates, closing in. And then there was a chunk chunk chunk and its chest exploded in a shower of yellow. Bradford spun and stared.

The gunnery crew were at the door - the maxim born on some sort of small cart - a rickshaw? One soldier pushed it, with the help of several civilians, whilst his comrade squatted on the small cary and cranked the gun. They spun the weapon from side to side, sending splinters flying as crates were shredded and monsters gutted by the hail of lead. A pair of Chinamen, their faces covered with scarves ran forward and lobbed a couple of spheres - similar to the one that the stranger had been holding. They burst over head spreading a white substance down onto the remaining monsters, which shrieked and sizzled.

The Maxim ceased firing as the gunners reloaded, whilst the two troopers who'd been with them stepped forward and hauled Bradford and the sergeant to their feet, pulling them back. The Chinamen were tossing more explosives in, just to be sure. Bradford grabbed one, "Hey, we need some of them intact!"

The man glared at him but just shrugged. His colleague tossed a few more of the strange smoke bombs and they all pulled away from the warehouse door.

Outside, Bradford realised they'd only seen half the battle. One end of the street was strewn with corpses - some human as well. They looked bloated though, which was strange. A few more of those grey monsters. There were also a few more Chinese fellows hanging around - men and women, which he found very unsettling. One of them stepped forward - he was old, balding and wore a neat set of wire spectacles.

"I trust you are unharmed, Mr…?"

"Uh Bradford, Captain Bradford."

"An American? We are both strangers in a strange land, Captain. Your men here, they made a good showing of that lot. They move fast, these devils."

"Thank you for the assistance. What happened out here?"

"My family, we were not able to flee when those things landed. Humble sailors and craftsmen only. We made a stand nearby but clearly your presence drew these beasts. I am a man who does not turn his back on people in need. Our common humanity demanded I lend assistance. We merely… alleviate the pressure, I am sorry we were unable to save all your men."

Bradford eyed the man. He wore a simple green tunic, in the Chinese style. But he had a long rifle slung across his back. Several of the other Chinese cohort had various seaman weapons - billhooks, the odd pistol, mostly antiques really. He half turned and saw a few of the Chinese hauling the unconscious forms of Linklater and Nicholson out. They'd have to go back in for the dead shortly.

"Locals I take it?"

"Yes, Captain. There are many what the British call flop houses here abouts where we are expected to stay out of the way, when we aren't working. Unfortunately, whilst they are easy to barricade, they are easy to be barricaded in."

"Bradford eyed the rifle then gestured at the bomblets on the Chinese bandoleers, "And yet you seem prepared."

The old man smiled, "One must be prepared for all eventualities in the big city, Captain."

"Ingenious devices, though. I didn't catch your name?"

The man smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

"Shen, Captain. A pleasure to meet you."


	7. Chapter 7

An hour. So much could happen in an hour. Stock prices in New York could tank; word of a Cholera outbreak in the Empire could disseminate; riots could unfold and engulf an entire province.

But finding a decent coffee near the Tower of London? Apparently impossible.

Shen and his impromptu militia had helped them to the cordon edge, by which point a whole Company of Grenadiers and Police had been marshalled to fully sweep and secure the district. Several stevedores and labourers were sent in with cart horses and reinforced wagons to retrieve whatever they could from the impact sites; a nearby hospital was cleared and emptied, turned into a recovery and investigation centre.

All done in an hour - Vahlen and the Council had been busy.

Now Bradford found himself slumped in a chair in the small Mess within the walls of the Tower. He was sat with the Colonel that Anderson knew, Marter. He sat nursing a brandy, his thick moustache twitching, contemplating the debrief. The Sergeant stood nearby, clearly not comfortable in an Officer's Mess. The Colonel glanced at him.

"So, Sergeant Hackett, you corroborate this?"

"Yessir. Clear evidence of tactical nuance, sir."

"Hmm, troubling. You both comported yourself well. I must inform you that we have had telegrams from our… associates overseas. There are reports in France, North America, potentially elsewhere. This seems to be, to put it bluntly, a global phenomenon."

The door from the courtyard opened and Doctor Vahlen stepped in. She brushed the dampness from the rapidly descending mist from her shawl and nodded at the men.

"Colonel.. The specimens are all accounted for. We have requisitioned London Bridge Hospital. It has a suitable Morgue. However, the incapacitated… they are, how you say, unresponsive. I think we will need more suitable, large scale housing. The recovery teams and civilian volunteers are finding more and more as they explore."

The Colonel harrumphed then fished a pocket watch from his uniform pocket, "Dammit, the Minister sent a runner asking for an update. Any other reports of hostilities?"

"_Nein_. I think their main thrust was blunted by the good Captain and Sergeant."

Bradford hung his head and breathed heavily. His hand was trembling, "Too many boys bought it. If it wasn't for Shen and the Delta."

"Enough of that, sir. Men die. It's the other side of the coin," the Sergeant's voice was gentle, but had a gruff edge, "And at least they died on English soil. Not some barren plain to be picked over by crows."

"Yeah. Yeah."

The Colonel peered at him, "Bit shaken old boy?"

Bradford sat up stiffly and downed his brandy, forcing himself to appear calm. He could see Vahlen watching him, hawklike. Or was she just curious? "I'll be fine, sir. Guess I need to stick around?"

"Unlikely we can guarantee safe passage. If you're willing to stay? We do still need a commander to co-ordinate this."

"Anderson?"

The Colonel sighed, "He's faffing. Which is a shame - I don't need faffers."

"Best will sir, if he'd seen something like this evening, can't says as I blame him. I can tackle men. But these things…"

"Total bloody war. Found in villages and urban centres, but these things dropped right into our back garden. Dropped. They're bloody willing to go for civvies."

The Colonel tipped his head to one side and sighed, eyeing Bradford, "Not up to it?"

"I can give it a shot, sir, but this may require more than just a local response. We need to know more about what we're dealing with. Intelligence, sir. I can co-ordinate that, but I'll need more."

Marter nodded, "Actionable intelligence. Doctor, I trust you will be able to provide something akin to analysis of our occult friends?"

She grimaced, "Hardly occult, Herr Marter, but they are certainly strange. If this is their master plan, I cannot see it being any more than a minor distraction. The Imperial powers would surely win any long-standing engagement, even with their superior weaponry. I believe that was illustrated succinctly today."

"Hmm, mayhap. Also, this Shen fellow. I have it on good authority from associates in the Home Office that he is a known individual of interest."

Bradford leaned forwards, "Oh? An anarchist?"

"Hardly. Our Chinese contemporaries don't share much with us - still a tad upset over the whole opium affair - but it would appear that your man Shen was being honest about his seniority. If a little opaque. We believe he is what is referred to as a '438'. He's fairly high ranking in one of their secret societies. Well, not so secret."

"So, they're criminals?"

The Colonel shrugged, "In a sense. London has always tolerated a certain level of activity as long as it doesn't impact the wider operational integrity of the Empire. Why waste Metropolitan resources chasing minor opium smuggling. I find it all a bit… political for my liking. However, I read up on him on my way over, what scant little there is. He appears to oversee the induction of new Chinese seeking to permanently settle in Limehouse. So, we seem to regard him as a minor extension of the Chinese delegation from their embassy."

Bradford massaged his temples, "Ok, well, he was useful. Handy."

"Perhaps a useful face to know. Anyway, if you will excuse me, I am expected in Westminster - debriefing. Thank you for your accounts. I will leave the minutiae to you."

Marter stood and left, leaving the three in an awkward silence. Bradford leaned back, "Let's hope it doesn't get any worse."

And the window glass exploded inwards.

* * *

It was an evening like any other - a fire crackled in the hearth; trains shunted in the yard, softened almost to melody by the distance. Anderson sat and stared at the flames.

He was restless. His mind racing. Ever since Afghanistan, since Africa, since the various tours, he had felt listless. This place had been a sort of consolation prize. And he'd grown into it, like a snail in its shell. He had been angry when he'd first arrived, thinking himself a discarded tool. But he'd made the best of it, taken what joy he could.

His future was a bleak one; unmarried and in his middle forties. His family a minor mercantile success with aspirations for higher office. And he a rebellious fool who yearned for heroism on foreign fields.

And all that was knocked out of him now. Wasn't it? Why, ten years ago he would've leapt at the chance to be an explorer into the extraordinary. Before he realised the unknown sometimes had teeth. And that man was a monster in his various guises of gentility. He stood and went to the window, trying to shift the melancholy thoughts. Around him fellow officers dozed in chairs or read the papers - most had retired for the evening. He looked out into the dusky sky, turned red by the setting sun. Spring and yet darkness lingered.

Something caught his eye. Something moving fast over the horizon. Several somethings.

He saw a green light growing larger, dipping down. It vanished behind the trees at the edge of the Mess gardens, clearly miles away. But the distance didn't prevent the thunderous shockwave that rattled the windows or the echoing boom. Around him men jumped to their feet, exchanging confused looks

Anderson took charge immediately, "Phillip, to the guard room, check the sentries! Richard, rouse the Commandant, the Adjutant. Something's bloody happened. Anarchists, gas explosion, who knows. We may be needed. Johnson, get to the Sergeants mess, get them out and rousing the boys."

They all stared at him, "Um, excuse…"

"Get to it, or I'll have you all up on charges, now shift."

The Officers, all students of the Royal Military College, had a frankly psychological response to a certain tone. It shivered up their spine and kicked something in the mind that said "YES!". And Anderson had perfected that tone over the years. He smiled thinly as the younger officers scattered and the seniors nodded with approval. One, a fellow Major with an outrageous moustache chuckled, "RIght William. And what can we do?"

Anderson blinked and nodded slowly, slightly surprised, "Well, get to the Regimental HQs. If it's nothing, then I'll happily parade and get the tomatoes chucked at me. But it's best o be prepared. Matherson, yes? Munitions corp?"

"The very same sir."

"Right, can you see if we can organise transportation? Requisition a train? I think we need somebody up there soon."

"And where is 'there'?"

Anderson glanced back out the window, watching as more green streaks lit up the sky and did a quick mental orientation.

"Woking."

* * *

Bradford stumbled out of the mess and saw Marter crouching outside, staring at the sky. People were screaming and soldiers were dashing around the courtyard. Above, green trails lit up the air, one trail much larger than the rest. He looked at Marter who stood unsteadily.

"Bloody hell." breathed the Colonel. Bradford found himself likewise at a loss. Vahlen stepped out and frowned.

"I trust this is a defensible position? Being, a schlosse ja?"

Marter nodded and gestured to Bradford, "Get to it. I need to get to Westminster. Seems like these things are hitting the outskirts, if my eye's still any good. We'll need it co-ordinating. Sergeant, assist Bradford and Ms Vahlen."

"Yes SAH!" barked Hackett. Bradford turned and looked around.

"First thing… let's get this place secured. Then let's find out what the hell's going on. Moira, I need you back at that hospital, but you'll need security. Sergeant, she'll need a detail."

The man nodded and headed off to wrangle some men. Vahlen and Bradford headed past the looming keep at the centre of the Tower and headed for the Western gate.

"Across Tower Bridge, then down the embankment. Need to split the forces to keep the location secure."

She nodded at him, "Ja, but we do not know their intent."

"That's why we need you. See what you can get from them."

"They're dead, John. I am afraid I am no occult diviner.."

"But if you can find something out about their technology, their diet, maybe. Anything to give us a clue."

"Can I assist?" They turned and saw Shen stood behind them. He was hunched slightly, his arms clasped behind him, "I am known to dabble in mechanical engineering. Chemical too. I may be of some use."

Bradford gave a lopsided smile, "Our, uh, military friends surely have their own…"

Vahlen gave him a sideways glance, "Ja but are they here now? Mr Shen here has local knowledge and people."

"Mighty convenient."

Shen's smile was a lightly stiff, "Yes. So convenient that I lost my brother this evening. And my people lost their loved ones."

Bradford swallowed, "Ah, I'm sorry."

The man waved a hand dismissively, "I understand scepticism, Captain. Truly, this night has put many assumptions to the winds and made many more suspect. I am a longshoreman by trade, a chemist and mechanical engineer by passion. If I can help, let me know."

Bradford nodded, "Alright. Can't exactly keep you outta this after what you've seen. Go with Doctor Vahlen - we've got everything set up at London Bridge. Your people ok?"

"I will bring them with me. I have several apprentices among their number. And I think we're making the soldiers upset."

Bradford quirked an eyebrow, "Oh?"

Shen shrugged, "We aren't prisoners, but they're watching us. We aren't in a stockade and they've given us food, but they know they're supposed to be guarding us. To protect us or something else, they do not know. In my experience, British soldiers are very pragmatic - you tell them to do something and they do it. Nuance… is difficult."

Bradford chuckled, "Yeah, sounds British. Ok, get them together. Ah, Hackett, got your detail? Shen and his people will be joining them."

The Sergeant had approached the gate, ten men in tow. The Maxim gunnery team were there too, which they seemed very protective of, "Yes sir. Ready to go, Got some carts too, so they're not bimbling."

Bradford watched as the impromptu convoy left via the gate. Men were already scrambling around the castle, dishing out weaponry, setting up sandbags beyond the main gates and otherwise securing whichever little side gates, doors or crannies were accessible. Bradford turned to Hackett.

"Let's get started."

* * *

An hour. So much can happen in an hour. Lives made, lives broken. Trains delayed. Troops marshalled.

It only took twenty minutes following the impact for the first people to arrive at the site - townsfolk and villagers, workmen and police. They stared, dumbfounded at the massive object - a huge cylinder - and the crater it had created. The crowd had even pulled notable men, such as Professor Ogilvy of the Woking Observatory and noted member of The Royal Society.

He stood, staring into the pit at the massive object. There were sounds from the cylinder - as if someone were moving about inside. He'd tried approaching with a gang of workers, but it gave off so much heat he'd been forced back.

He turned as a man approached. The gentleman was tall, with a top hat and smoky glasses. The figure was transfixed by the cylinder.

"Fascinating isn't it? I wish I could get closer."

The figure glanced at him and offered a thin smile, "Soon, yes, we are sure."

"Wonder what it is."

The thin man unfolded his hands in an almost supplicant gesture towards the cylinder, "The future."

Ogilvy nodded absently. Another pair of gentlemen, clad similarly had joined the first. Perhaps undertakers? "Anyone hurt by the impact? You seem… expectant."

The three looked at him at the same time and he had a distinct sensation of being disected visually. The lead man gave a half shrug, "This, yes. A long expected occurrence. You have writings about such things."

Ogilvy snorted, "Ah, you must mean those pulp novellas. Old Dickensian, Christmas Carol malarky. Or Conan-Doyle's forays. Hell, my old school chum Wells, he's still dabbling. Probably around here somewhere, writing this up for one of his papers. Though those editors, philistines, they'll probably relegate it to near the weather."

The trio turned their attention back to the cylinder and stared. Ogilvy fidgeted and fished a notebook from his pocket, then began making sketches. When he looked back up the three men were gone. Around him, people were gawking, walking too and fro, entranced by the slow, deliberate movements of the strange object.

"Ah Ogilvy! There you are. Carrie and I … well, this is one for the books eh?"

A man jogged over - he was in his late thirties, brown hair receding and a neatly trimmed moustache. In has wake came a younger woman, her dark hair straight and pushed back over her shoulders. She seemed nervous, staring up at the strange cylinder with fear in her eyes. She gripped at the man's arm, "George. This is… it feels dangerous."

He patted her hand, "It's done nothing. And you, there Ogilvy, thought you said nothing'd come from Mars."

"Yes, strange isn't it? Possibly some sort of volcanic ejection? But it looks… smooth. Almost machined."

Carrie sighed, "It's very unsettling. Where are the police? The Army?"

"Mobilising most likely. Can't imagine that lot can even envisage something like this happening. Got to get their heads round it first," joshed George. He smiled at her and nodded, "But I can see you're unsettled, darling. Let's get you home. I can pop back in the morning. Doubt anyone'll be able to steal it, what?"

Ogilvy chuckled, "Well, I tried… too bally hot. Mrs Wells, lovely to see you again. I apologise for not writing - the food on Wednesday was simply divine."

She smiled at him, "Well, Charles, it is a pleasure. You are always welcome."

George shook Ogilvy's hand, "Don't stay too late old boy. Let's catch up in the morrow. I've got something in mind for the first article. Next one, will need a few choice quotes from the man who saw it coming!"

They made their farewells an Ogilvy turned back to the massive object.

"A million to one… well, the dice do roll a certain way sometimes."

Ogilvy was still there several hours later. He'd had a man fetch him a travelling stool and had camped up with several other eager watchers - they'd got a campfire going and had brewed tea. Some of the women from the village nearby had brought cold meat and beer and they'd formed an impromptu little gathering, discussing what this strange visitor could mean.

The police had arrived and set up what barely counted as a cordon - a scant handful of bobbies walking a perimeter a few hundred metres from the object, trying to stop errant children or gawkers getting too close. It was a common, though, which meant wide open space. And no one had that many wooden barricades to hand, especially not the local Woking constabulary. They were equipped for the odd drunken reveller or perhaps a disgruntled farmer.

But falling stars and gathered crowds?

A few runners from Aldershot had arrived - a pair of officers and a small cart-load of soldiers, but they were mainly standing off on the far side of the object, near a wood block of trees. What ten men with muskets would do he had no idea and had an inkling that the military men were facing similar thoughts - they couldn't precisely shoot it and they couldn't move it.

So, all sat there, at an impasse.

George had arrived at six, bearing a gift of bacon and bread, as well as a few boiled eggs. He shared them with the little group and then spent the next half hour interrogating him over what it could possibly be - Ogilvy found it faintly amusing but he had to admit he was as in the dark as George, only able to offer blind suggestions.

It was at seven that it all, as some in the village would have said, "kicked off". The cylinder shift in its crater and the top began to move. There was a hiss of steam and green gas, then the top began to unscrew. Several smaller portholes, previously invisible also hissed and extended, belching gas.

A few moments and the top unscrewed, revealing two feet of shining steel. And then it slid to one side and thudded to the ground.

Something rose from within the cylinder. A pair of small, strange, floating objects with four manipulators rose alongside it. The thing sat atop a strange bowl which floated free of supports of any kind. It looked incomplete, though. The thing atop the hovering bowl had a pair of disc-like eyes and a lip-less mouth that quivered and slathered. It was a misshapen creature, more brain than actual beast. Grey pink colour, its skin glistened like wet leather in the morning light. Snake-like tentacles writhed as it gripped the edge of the cylinder and hauled itself out. The hovering chair-thing seemed ill-suited to the terrestrial atmosphere, barely able to support it and the thing tumbled off the side of the cylinder. It gave a warbling cry, which elicited titters among the stunned crowd. They seemed shocked, but only shocked currently.

A second being hauled itself out and surveyed the crowd with a gurgle. One man slipped and fell into the pit, sliding down the loose earth.

With a speed unnatural, the beast whipped a tentacle out and dragged the man towards it. The sudden movement jolted a primeval instinct in the onlookers and the crowd pulled back, away from the pit. But no one seemed to be able to tear themselves away. A pair of men jumped down, ready to help the poor fellow who was being pulled towards the strange beast atop the cylinder, when a funnel rose from the interior of the cylinder, topped with a strange dome. There was a flash of green smoke and the two men erupted into flame, their screams drowned by sudden panicked screams of the onlookers. People ran, blindly. The dome fizzled and flashed, spurting more green smoke and several more people burst into flame, as if an invisible beam had jumped between them.

Ogilvy cried out and felt himself yanked backwards, beyond the lip of the crater. George was hauling him along, dragging him away towards a copse of trees. There was the sound of gunfire suddenly, the soldiers clearly spurred to action, but it was sporadic. An inhuman shriek came from the pit, the sound of flesh rippling from impacts and the strange heat ray shot forth. There was a crackle like fireworks, the sound of ammunition cooking in its pouch, mingled with the screams of dying men.

The astronomer glanced back and saw a man stumbling, clad in the bright crimson of the British Army. He was soot stained but seemed to have escaped the heat ray. As he watched, one of the strange four-armed aero-automata crested the crater and zoomed in on the man. The four arms clamped around him and there was the flash of discharging electricity. The soldier went limp and then, to the Ogilvy's astonishment, he was the thing lift the fellow and carry him through the air, back into the crater.

George and Ogilvy collapsed into the undergrowth and peered back. They watched as others escaped, vanishing into woodland or beyond the range of the heat ray. Corpses smouldered on the common. As they watched, one of the monsters floated up, buoyed by its ethereal litter. Some smaller creatures, hunched and with bulbous heads, skittered over lip of the crater and began hauling a few bodies back. The bulky monster, meanwhile, waved its tentacles. A purple mist suffused the air about it and suddenly burst.

George stared, slack jawed and Ogilvy had to suppress a whimper as several of the dead stood back up. The men and women then walked over the edge of the crater and vanished from view. The floating thing rotated, as if surveying the landscape. The pair of men held their breath as their little sanctuary was focused on. The monster seemed to regard them for a long moment. Then several floating pieces of white material hovered up and surrounded it, encasing it in a gleaming white sphere. The thing dropped out of sight, a single viewport trained on them until it vanished.


	8. Chapter 8

Many said that the Empire was a staid thing, a rotting beast, slow to react even as threats struck its flanks and tore the boots from its leaden feet. Most of the people who said that tended to be the ones upon whom said boot was treading. The reality was that, despite the pomp, ceremony and rigid attitude, when the institutions of Britain decided to do something they tended to do it with a grinding determination that crushed anything before it.

Anderson stood amidst a bustle of activity. Young Subalterns dashed to and fro, marshalling sergeants and equipment, watched by Quartermasters who gazed over the hubbub like mother hens watched squabbling chicks. The main parade square of the camp was full of soldiers being formed into ranks and prepared; stacks of rifles were being issued out, rounds counted and shuffled into pouches and large wagon trains prepared for departure. He was quietly impressed and not a little proud. A small detachment had been sent ahead at Midnight so would likely be there first thing; a larger contingent had already left to commander a train and cargo-carriages. Artillery material was being hauled from armouries and hitched to horses, ready to begin the march. The whole camp wasn't being mobilised - one Division was being sent, consisting of two infantry regiments, a light cavalry squadron and five batteries of artillery.

A dramatic telegram from London had spurred things on - confusion seemed to be reigning back in the Ministry, as something had gotten Westminster spooked. Also, there were unconfirmed reports from Liverpool, Manchester and even Edinburgh. However, local regiments were being tasked with handling that, along with any militia that could be pulled together.

Anderson had been able to step back once the senior brass had been roused - the various senior colonels were taking charge of their particular units, whilst a Brigadier, Chumley-Smythe, was heading in overall command. However, the man had practically demanded him along as, essentially, an equerry and advisor. He watched for a moment longer then withdrew to the headquarters building. There he allowed himself a moment to breath and refresh. The place was lit by gas-lamps and candles in the dim early morning light. Reynold, the Adjutant offered him a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted.

"Ready, William?"

"Just about. Any further information from Woking?"

"Something, well, bloody well landed but there's bugger all happening. Real news is London. Household Divisions and the Yeomanry on fighting in the streets. Can't tell if its rioting or something else. Orders here are for the majority of the Garrison to be put on alert and for elements to deploy to the outer boroughs to respond."

Anderson sighed, "And do what? Wait until the locals get ratty about our lot nicking the beer?"

Reynold chuckled, "Happened in Dover against Bonaparte, didn't it? Lots of grumpy farmers."

Anderson nodded and sipped his coffee, "So, cordon the bally thing off and then what?"

The adjutant shrugged, "Bit flummoxed myself, wait for any further orders I suppose. I'm getting the odd telegram through on the telegram printer. Seems most think it's panic after some cunning anarchist bombs but… well, that chap you mentioned, Bradford? Seems he's co-ordinating something in the Tower."

Anderson nodded then excused himself. He made his way to the telephone room and paused, chewing his lip. He could feel something, a nagging fear in his stomach. But it faded as his mind resolved to action and he picked up the receiver. He managed to get a prompt connection - phone services still seemed to be operating, though he wondered if that wasn't down to military edicts. There was a clunk and a hum and then a voice asking for his name. He identified himself and there was a pause before an American twang came over the line.

"_Anderson, sir. Bit busy right now, old fellah."_

"I'm sure. Just thought you may want to factor that we've got something outside the city as well."

_"__Well, if it's like these little things that dropped all over, they're more a nuisance to dig out. Sure you boys can roll over it."_

Anderson chuckled; he could hear the frustration, "Well, from what we've heard it's a good job it didn't land in london. Hundred meter crater or something."

There was silence, _"You're shitting me."_

Anderson blinked at the abrupt retort, "I am not, as your colloquialism would have it, defecating you. However, I think I may have been forced to re-evaluate my former… reluctance. When one is faced with the harsh reality of the world, one re-evaluates."

The American grunted, clearly distracted, "_Uh, sorry Bill, what are you saying?"_

"I'm sure you have it all locked down and coordinated. But, given what appears to have flared up, I would like to connect and share intelligence with your benefactors. Time willing."

_"__Well, I'm sure once we deal with this… then yeah, a conversation'd be good. I'm not in a position to agree, but I'll raise it with the Colonel. He headed to Westminster but we've heard nothing since."_

"Understood. I won't query your strategy over the telephone, but we will do our best to keep you appraised of what is happening out here. If it's more of the same, I'm sure it'll be of little comfort. But you never know."

_"Thanks Major."_

"Now, I'm sure you have a war to win. Once I have assessed Woking I will contact you. Likely via telegram to the Ministry."

_"__Excellent. If we can get a line sorted we can, hopefully, keep you updated if it all goes up the creek here."_

Anderson laughed, said his farewells and hung up. Then, with a strange spring in his step, he returned to the fray.

* * *

The journey to Woking took 3 hours at forced march pace. Anderson rode at the front with the Brigadier, along with a small contingent of command staff. Wagons and troops formed the remainder of the column. It was near midday when they arrived at Horsell Common and established a main camp a good half mile from the impact site. The infantry were divvied up and dispatched with various engineering sapper teams to erect cordons and patrols around a perimeter - this had been hastily mapped out between the officers prior to departure, so was a mere stop gap.

The artillery moved to a small hill with a fairly decent overlook of the common; a second battery had detached further back and formed a rear-guard line. Anderson had insisted on this, much to the confusion of even the Artillery officers - "Overwatch, gentlemen, in case of breakthrough. We don't know what we are dealing with and it would be unwise to commit all to the front."

The Brigadier had concurred and that was that.

Anderson took a pair of the cavalry soldiers with him and decided to reconnoiter the perimeter, to ensure patrols were established, linked up and not isolated. He felt on edge, but excited, his sword bouncing against his thigh as he rode his horse down chalk paths between the major checkpoints. His pistol provided a reassuring weight against his other hip and he scanned the horizon towards the strange crater with interest.

From here he could make out strange smoke rising from within and noted a distinct lack of any civilians near the hole.

The first checkpoint was being established, the infantry looking bored and grumpy, as any soldier roused before normal reveille would be. They reported nothing untoward and no civilians. The second checkpoint stated likewise. The third gave Anderson a view of the wider common, not obscured by tree block; and also received the report that the initial detachment of men were absent, condition unknown. He could spy a smouldering patch of earth and checked using his spyglass, but saw no bodies.

He continued the patrol, passing infantry marching between each set point, but saw no locals. The village off in the distance seemed inhabited; smoke rose from chimneys…

No, it rose from houses.

He spurred his horse back to the camp and sounded the alarm. Men leapt onto horses and thundered across fields to do a check of the perimeter. Anderson wheeled his horse about as another officer emerged from the command tent.

"What the devil, Anderson? Perimeter clear?"

"Too clear. No civilians. And it looks like the village is burning."

"Dear God. What the hell's happened?"

Anderson spurred his horse to a gallop and vaulted a set of hedgerows, following the cavalry. He watched as a company of infantry hurried through recently-ploughed fields, advancing on the hamlet.

A flash of green slammed into one man who went down hard, with a gurgle. The Major growled deep in his throat and reigned in his horse, watching as the cavalry ahead scattered under a hail of green fire.

_They were here?_

He turned his horse and bellowed commands, "Company, form up, advance steady, fifty paces! Spread out, identify your man! Do not, I repeat, do not be fooled!"

The shots coming from the village were haphazard, as if fired by people moving and ducking; barely aimed. One or two struck home, sending a man sprawling. Fifty paces ahead Anderson called a halt and set the men to ranks.

"Company! 1… 2… 3… 4… Front rank, _PRESENT_."

There was the echoing bark of rifle fire as twenty five muskets spat lead towards the cluster of white washed houses. Plaster dust and brickwork sprayed. There was a squeal as something went down in a garden, scuttling between cover.

"Front rank, 1,2,3, Rear Rank _Present!_"

Another bark of fire, another squeal. A few shots of green flew out and caught a man in the chest. He went down with a choking cry. The men to his side barely flinched, eyes locked ahead as they went through the motions of ejecting their rounds and reloading.

The Company fired again, then the rear rank stepped forward, took aim and blasted. The next rank did the same, then the next. Slowly, they ground forward, a steady hail of lead keeping whoever they were fighting suppressed. Anderson rode behind the line, keeping a steady stream of orders going, keeping the men focused on the rhythm of firing, reloading, firing. Keeping their minds set on not what they were shooting at, just the act of shooting itself. His movement also seemed to be attracting the fire, so he kept moving, which in turn reduced the shots lined up at his men.

He watched as the regrouped cavalry entered the hamlet from the other side. He saw, between the houses, the flash of steel and heard the shrieks of something dying. The contingent of mounted men thundered through and Anderson called a halt as they travelled through the ark of fire, then roared a "Present." as the cavalry cleared their charge. They reached the edge of the village, at a small stone wall and hunkered down.

"Fix… BAYONETS!" A few men chuckled as, with the his of steel on leather, blades were drawn and clamped to the rifles. Anderson grinned, ferally, "Have at 'em, lads."

The first men vaulted the wall. A green blast shot out from a back door but went wide. A man charged forwards and thrust his rifle in, eliciting a high pitched squeal from something. The men didn't dawdle, charging amidst buildings, using their rifles as clubs, spears and staves. Anderson sent a group to flank and act as marksmen, keeping any opportunistic creatures hunkered in buildings, unable to take shots.

He heard the cry of men being hit, usually followed by an inhuman cry. Anderson dismounted and handed the horse to one of the infantry hanging at the rear, the reserve force, then drew his sword and pistol. A pair of men followed him as he advanced into the hamlet.

Something leapt from a window and scrabbled at the guttering of a cottage opposite. It was a man in a morning suit. Anderson goggled as the "man" practically twisted from his handing position and snarled. The Major blinked, raised his pistol and fired. The "man" shrieked and fell clutching its arm.

"Good shot sir," said one of the soldiers, his voice tinged with surprise. Anderson just nodded and advanced towards the small garden where the creature had fallen. The thing stood, bringing itself to its full height and made a dramatic flourish, raising a strange, silver-green weapon to bear. Its movements were quick, fluid and it got a shot off fast. One of Anderson's escorts went down with a cry, clutching his side. His comrade and the Major returned fire. At twenty feet it was hard to miss and they didn't. The creature stiffened as a pistol round thudded into its forehead, then crumpled as a .308 burst its gut.. Anderson reeled back as the thin-man practically exploded. He stepped back further as he saw the cobbles begin to smoulder and pit from the fluid leaking from the creature.

"That's new."

Twenty minutes later, the village was cleared of hostiles. After the adrenaline rush of the assault, the men finally took stock of what they'd been fighting. Several goggled, a few couldn't help but laugh. The NCOs turned to Anderson, along with the officers of the Cavalry as the troopers stacked Insectoid corpses and (carefully) hauled the thin-men bodies into rows.

The troglodyte menace had exacted a toll - three cavalrymen had been sent reeling, a fourth had shot himself in a panic, so a quarter of this group was gone. The infantry had lost seven in the initial advance and another four clearing houses. Two more were down after running into a pair of other thin men and had inhaled some of the gas the buggers seemed to practically leak.

"Bloody business. Jefferson, head back to camp, inform the Brigadier of the status of the Hamlet. We may as well billet some of the men here to keep it secure."

The Cavalry Subaltern saluted and began marshalling his men. One of the Infantry sergeants stepped forward and gave Anderson a look, "You don't seem… perturbed… sir."

Anderson met his gaze, "One sees all manner of things in service to Her Majesty, Corporal. I just happen to have seen these devils myself before."

"Devils, sir?"

Anderson shrugged, "Hardly. They die to bullets as well as any Afghan, Zulu or Frenchman, what?"

The Corporal managed a weak smile, "That they do. Tricky buggers though."

Anderson patted the man on the shoulder, "Nothing crack shots like our boys can't handle though. Now, round 'em up, we'll need to find a cart for the bodies."

"Why sir?"

The Major chuckled, "A lady I know would kill for these."

The Corporal blinked and shook his head, "Always knew the gentry were a queer lot. As you say sir, will get to it."

But still no sign of civilians. Anderson chewed his lip and walked down the small main road. Troops passed him or sat cleaning weapons, whilst others stood picket. One cried out and Anderson dashed across to the corner of a house. He saw something scuttling away across a field. The soldier brought his rifle up but before he could even sight properly, the small, grey thing suddenly bucked and flipped as a shot ran out.

Moments later, a small group of figures emerged from the woodline on the far side of the village, led by a man with a long rifle. Anderson called for the troops to stand down, "But be careful."

The group were a mixed bag, twenty all told. Men, women, children. The lead man had the look of a farm-hand - sunburned forearms and calloused hands. He shook Anderson by the hand firmly.

"Thankee sir. Saw you boys clear them buggers out."

"What happened?"

The man shrugged, "Bunch of gawkers from the common ran through. Then we had screaming from Dotty's parlour and, well, these thigns just running and grabbing people. Took most've 'em. Wrapped 'em in green silk or something and carried them back to the common. I took who I could, we hunkered up in the trees, trading shots with them… then your lot came up, they went quiet."

Anderson nodded and looked at the bedraggled group, "This all that's left?"

"Aye sir. Hundred souls in this 'ere steading. Bare score of us left. But we want to fight."

A few men hefted pitchforks - some seemed sticky with green fluid. Several others hefted shotguns or hunting rifles. God bless the countryside thought Anderson. He nodded.

"I will leave a small contingent here, but we'll need you to keep this village secure. If you can, get women and children evacuated. Heard from any other villages?"

"Possibly. Rumours some sightings over at Maybury Hill."

"Then bunker down here. Corporal Franks, secure the hamlet, take ten men. I'll get back to HQ, update the command. We may need to sweep the whole bally county at this rate."

Anderson found his horse, tied to a garden fence, then remounted and led his remaining men, along with two wagons, piled with metal and meat, back. Behind him, the light of candles lit up windows. But not enough.

* * *

_Sleep would probably be a good idea_. Bradford was hunched over a map, unrolled on a table in the main keep of the Tower. He was, really, using the table for support. The constant stream of information, updates and requests was… well frankly it was overwhelming. He was fine being an analyst and perhaps coming up with potential directions. But doing that and then having to make the final call? It was getting too much.

So far, they had two core sites contained and five more sites of potential anarchist-level activity, potentially stirred up by these visitors. Camden was a riot, currently, with Paddington experiencing a particularly brutal fire near the station. Luckily the Fire Brigade and several employed police and military personnel were holding it together; but they were getting reports of strange attacks - green fire, attacks of opportunity on personnel or civilians.

He could react fast enough - the city was a warren of activity, people flooding from one side in a panic, whilst another area was barely aware there was anything wrong. And it'd been like that all night.

They'd gotten the dockyards and Limehouse mostly sorted; Westminster had, essentially, an Army encamped around it, with the Household division deploying cavalry and Grenadier infantry to defend it. Likewise the palace was a solid fortress.

He'd requisition and managed to get the Colonel to approve a few elements of the military to secure what he thought of as strategic assets - the main telephone and telegraph exchange, for one; the railway stations for another. But there was too much of London. Add onto that the Hospital stretching his guard force.

He looked up as Moira entered and slumped into an easy chair that had been pulled into the room. It'd been an armoury, apparently, for medieval equipment. Right now it was a mess of maps and cork-boards, with junior officers and NCOs pinning reports or sharing information in hushed tones. The Doctor massaged her temples and fixed Bradford with a glare.

"You look _schrecklich_ Herr Bradford."

"_Danke _Ms Vahlen. You aren't a morning person?"

"I would be if I thought this was a civilised time to be awake."

"Up all night?"

"Just like you. I have been giving the specimens some more attention; this batch being fresher, less pickled and also lacking the lead poisoning of our prior options."

Bradford shrugged, "Gotta ship a corpse somehow. Find anything?"

She sighed and leaned back in the chair, settling slightly, "Well, it's all wrong to start with."

Bradford moved around the table and leaned against its edge, folding his arms, "Oh?"

"The organs make no sense. There's certain mirrored elements, such as what we believe are kidneys, waste removal systems and so forth; but it lacks both any method _zu essen_, to eat or to excrete. It has no mouth and no…. Well, no…"

"Alright Doc, I get the picture. Our guy is permanently blocked up, you mean?"

"That's just it. No digestive tract, vestigial throat, minor vocal chords only. It has a circulatory system of sorts, but it really does resemble an insect in that it appears to have a fluid base rather than a complete circulatory system for its organs. That only goes to its brain. Which in itself is strange."

"I mean, I ain't a neuro-whatever doc… define strange."

"Highly developed lobes, very dense as well. But the basal ganglia is practically non-existent. It has some elements similar to a human brain, but appears to have extra elements. Also, thin metal filaments all the way through. Consistent in all the specimens."

"Metal in their heads? Shrapnel?"

"_Nein._ This appears… placed. It forms a sort of mesh across elements of the creature's brain. And it runs to the devices on their wrists."

"And what are those anyway?"

"Weaponry… tools as well. We have no idea, not a single one was intact. Shen is analysing the metals currently and seems to be trying to reconstruct one from scratch. He things he can puzzle out something about it at least."

"So, they don't eat or shit, they don't talk. What have we learned doc?"

"Oh they eat… but _verdammt_ if I know how. Injection, perhaps?"

Bradford exhaled, "Which means they will need a logistical supply. Can't fight if you can't eat. And if they can't eat what we eat, then we may have a home advantage on these suckers."

Moira nodded slowly, "Good point. And what about you?"

Bradford rocked his head back, "Well, Anderson may be heading back. Got something big in…. Woking? Yeah that's where. Maybe these bastards trying another gamble."

"Ah, so he has taken up the offer?"

"Reckon so. Be glad if he does get here, he can manage this bullcrap. English command structure and politics… you can keep it. Had three messages demanding I go to, uh, Parliament and declare to them why I haven't secured the city. Or why there aren't more troops at Downing street…. Or or or."

Moira chuckled, "Sounds like the best of times." With a groan, she stood, "If you will excuse me, Captain. I will retire. I understand there are rooms?"

"Make yourself at home. One of the, what are they… Beefeaters can guide you."

He watched her go and turned back to the map. London was a series of little red pins and green rings. He looked up at a larger map on a board, of the world. It had several dots, along with a few orange ones for unknown activity. Prussia, France, America. He'd had a call from New York - similar activity was being reported in California and, potentially, down in Florida, albeit not quite as intensive. More probing.

And those falling stars, more reports across the country. He was glad he hadn't gone to Liverpool now - reports were very confused from up there.

He stared at the map and sighed, "Just what the hell is your endgame, boys?"

**UPDATING - ORBITAL ASSETS CONFIRM:**

Primary beachhead sites confirmed

Gateway anchoring - IN PROGRESS

Embedded assets - OBSERVING RESPONSE

War Machine assembly - COMPLETION IMMINENT

**REQUEST FROM CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD:**

Progress update requested

Key project update requested

Communication status update requested

SOL 3 Pacification update requested

**COLLATING**

**…****.SENDING**

**NEW QUERY**

Ensure sample collection is increased - data set confirms /self/ findings

**PROJECT AVATAR **proposal - **COMMENCE**

**NEW PARAMETERS FOR: WARMIND**

_Identify suitable sample sets_

_Secure_

_Extract_

_Dispatch for analysis_

**ADDENDUM**

_Priority: Gateway establishment for rapid extraction of samples._

_Priority: Secure Gateway sites_

_Secondary: Clear hostile locations in order to achieve PRIORITY objectives._

**WARMIND Alpha -NORTHERN HEMISPHERE:**

Parameters received

Gateway establishment underway

Request Escalation Warform release

IDENTIFIED: hostile presence, armed contingent; success rate against incoming forces currently measured at 25%

Attrition rate: HIGH

Adjusted Attrition rate with WAR MACHINE completion: NEGLIGIBLE

Adjusted success rate: 97.35%

**/SELF RESPONSE/**

Escalation Warform request - **GRANTED**

Aerial Units Decanted.

Ground Enforcement Units Decanted

ETA via launch: 3 Planetary rotations

ETA with Gateway establishment: 0.45 seconds. - **PRIORITY - GATEWAY ESTABLISHMENT WILL ENABLE RELEASE OF ASSETS TO SECURE.**

**WARMIND Alpha -NORTHERN HEMISPHERE:**

Acknowledged

War Machine TRI-902 activating in 2040 seconds.

Engagement of hostile sapients: IMMINENT


	9. Chapter 9

The Brigadier stared down at the map and grumbled through his moustache. They hadn't exactly got decent topographical maps of the area; half the Regimental cartography was of the Salisbury plains, or the various Empire territories that they could, at a moments notice, be deployed to. No one had thought to stock a map of bloody Woking in case some chancers from Afghanistan tried taking a pop at old Mildred on her way to the market.

Instead they had some fairly out of date markers, a hastily drawn up field sketch of dispositions and various obstacles, plus some small models denoting the ruddy crater and the "Unknown Enemy" beyond. They'd heard gunshots echoing from the village to the south and he'd cautioned the artillery to not fire, in case of collateral.

He was also leery of the things happening in the background. Anderson was a decent sort, but clandestine calls via telephone to London? Which then led to very peculiar orders. He had the ear of the Colonel, apparently, which normally wouldn't be an issue as the fellow was a junior to him. But that particular Colonel was also apparently well liked in the Ministry so here they were. He wasn't entirely comfortable with this instantaneous communication - it left no room for men on the ground to take the initiative and it meant the bean-counters tended to try to micro-manage every element of a battle without truly understanding the flow on the ground.

Right now, the cordon was wider than he'd liked. Major Anderson had advised caution but there was such a thing as inaction. He'd learned that sitting back and just watching was often the opening your opponent required to take advantage. And for that reason he'd ordered three companies to advance on the crater to form a series of firing and observation positions.

He looked up at the Battery commander next to the table. The Captain was in his middle years, a Woolwich man through and through, "Peterson, the guns zero'd?"

"As best we can elevate, yes Brigadier. Of course first volley will tell if we're true. Harder for the rearmost contingent; I'm still not sure about displacing a battery."

Chumley-Smythe shrugged, "I am inclined to agree with Anderson on that matter. Cover in depth in case we need to withdraw. I doubt it is necessary but sometimes one must adopt a cautious pose."

An infantry lieutenant, a thrusting young man clearly with an eye on a third pip on his epaulet piped up, "Sir, is a cordon really necessary? For a large chunk of space rock?" Another subaltern elbowed him as subtley as possible, "What, just voicing the consensus, if you'll pardon me sir. Major Anderson is a well respected veteran but not one with the best pedigree of strategic concerns."

Another young Captain, Wortherton, interjected as well, "Well, not quite old boy. He did salvage the debacle down in South Africa after the Boer pushed us back. And rumour has it he knows what these things are about."

"What things?"

There was a clatter outside the tent as a wagon rattled past the hastily erected barricades around the base-camp. The command staff left the tent and stared at the wagon and its cargo - piled high with strange, otherwordly corpses. Anderson rode in after them and saluted.

"Brigadier, contingent of the Enemy has been routed. I have to report that the cordon is too late - it appears several hamlets may have been compromised. "

The Brigadier stared at the bodies, "Great Scott, what the devil are they."

"I wouldn't get too close, sir… the ones that look like men excrete a powerful toxin. Report that casualties were unavoidable. Seems they fight hard, but not particularly well."

"Something of a relief then."

Anderson glanced across the camp, then beyond, down the hill towards the crater. It was over half a mile or so to it, but their elevation wasn't sufficient to see into the crate with any detail. He could make out some metal structures around the rim, though, which further obscured the view. Also, he noted the advancing columns of troops, fanning out and establishing firing positions. He chewed his lip but saw not great cause for concern.

"I advise we move the corpses back to Woking, to secure them for London. I believe there is a team in the Capital who can analyse them, their weaponry."

"Analyse corpses, sir? They are battlefield detritus."

"And if they were human, I would agree. Order the dead for just casualty counting, burial and all that. But these… are not."

Chumley-Smythe twitched his moustache in though and harrumphed, "Strange times, these. Well, I don't want these ruddy things spooking the horses and the men. You there, Sergeant, get these hence, charter a carriage at Woking. Wire to London, get the coded telegram from the signallers. Hop to it man."

They watched the sergeant salute and wheel the wagons away, whilst a young man in a signallers uniform hopped onto the tailgate, his face visibly paling. Anderson turned back in his saddle to look at the Brigadier.

"Sir, with your permission, I would like to lead a detachment and confirm clearance of the surrounding settlements, to negate any flanking manoeuvres."

"You believe there are more of these abominations?"

"Yes, sir."

The subaltern piped up again, "With all due respect, sir, that crater, whilst impressive, couldn't have spawned all of these and more. Not unless it cracked all the way down to hell. This is, what, a bare score? And you say you suffered casualties?"

Anderson eyed the man coolly, "Well, Lieutenant, I will take that under advisement. But I've seen what a few of these can do, even with barely any co-ordination. Of course, I look forward to watching you vanquish them with a flourish of that gilded blade of yours. Truly, I may learn something. Brigadier?"

The older man chuckled and glanced at the reddening face of the Subaltern - some Barons son, if he recalled properly. Attended the Royal Military College but, if he had it right, had perhaps greased the wheels of his success. Just wonderful. Of course, he could remember when a man had to buy his commission anyway; but he couldn't say it exactly produced competence amongst the officer corps.

"Permission granted Anderson. Don't garrison every ruddy cottage you find though; if these jumped up chai-boys are moving about we need to be able to fix them without ourselves being fixed. We have their hole surrounded, so maybe that'll draw 'em back out of the woodwork, what."

Anderson smiled faintly and nodded, then threw up another salute. He wheeled the horse about and started barking orders at waiting NCOs and junior officers, drawing a company together. The cavalry that had been with him turned smartly to follow, horses trotting in line behind him. The Brigadier watched and nodded slowly - the man was competent. And diligent. The men'd follow him, it seemed, despite him being a training school wonk. Well, now he was a training school wonk.

"The bally cheek of the man," he heard a voice his. He turned and stared at the subaltern who balked under his gaze.

"May I remind you, young man, that he is Major and your superior. See to the barricade preparation."

"But, sir, the planning…"

"I will not countenance that sort of dissension and lack of respect for the chain of command in my Headquarters. Now, jump to it, before I decide to let the Pioneers get you digging the latrines."

The man paled and dashed off, trying to reassert himself by barking his own orders at the sappers and infantry stacking sandbags and palisades. Brigadier Chumley-Smythe exhaled and gestured to the remainder of the staff to head back inside. He watched the wagons disappear down a curve in the road, then looked back down the hill towards the crater. He had an unsettled feeling he couldn't shake. He privately hope the Subaltern was right and that the crater had already disgorged its fill of nightmares.

Well, the best way to assuage doubts was the plan for the unthinkable. And after South Africa, India and various continental conflicts against a multitude of enemies, he reckoned he knew what to expect here.

* * *

Anderson and his contingent made good pace away from the headquarters. He unfolded a small map from a tunic pocket and checked the surrounding hamlets. Best was to secure the main villages towards Woking, thereby ensuring a solid passage to a major metropolitan area. From there, with the line secured, they could branch out and secure the villages around the common. The waterways to the north would probably limit infantry movement to effectively capture and move prisoners, so he doubted they would have pushed far north; not when there was amble opportunity towards Woking and Horsell.

The small column trotted down the road until they reached a major cordon at a junction. The guards there were arguing with a small group of civilians. The first they'd seen beyond the wrecked hamlet. All were dishevelled and looked panicky. He picked up the distant shouts even at a distance.

"..derstand! They'll burn you!"

"..all over the fields, monsters I tell you!"

"Head to Halstead, please! My mother is…"

He waved the column to halt - no reason to crowd the checkpoint with another hundred souls, then trotted forward, a sergeant and officer with him, also on horseback. The crowd turned sharply at their advance and seemed to shrink away. He reigned the horse in and peered down at them, then looked to the Corporal on the cordon.

"Report, soldier, what seems to be the issue?"

"Ah, sir, well, this lot just came an' rushed up here, shouting like. Mad things about beasties in the woodsheds."

"You are aware of our little fracas over yonder?"

"Well, heard shots, sir, thought that was rioting and the usual, you know?"

Anderson regarded the man, all shiny buttons and red-face fresh from shaving, "Well, quite."

A man pushed to the front of the crowd and gestured at the corporal, "And the ray! The heat ray! It'll make your men turn to ash".

Anderson looked down the man - brown suit, short cropped hair and a thin moustache. "And you, are, sir?"

"Wells, sir, George Wells, correspondent for the Surrey Gazette and the Times. We were there, sir. This morning. When it lit the common up like a candle."

Anderson frowned, "Green bolts? Little man?"

The man shrugged, "No sir. Something just…. Burned the men alive. Yours too."

"Anderson?"

Another man pushed forward, next to Wells. He had thin spectacles on and a receding hairline. It was a face he knew fairly well, over port and polite chit-chat.

"Ogilvy? What the devil… well of course you're here," he adjusted himself in the saddle, "So, I believe we have some catching up to do."

"I was wrong, Bill. So very wrong. You have to get your men away from here, get them safe."

The man looked half crazed, the others around him giving him a bit of a berth, whilst still trying to huddle together. Wells interjected, "Sir, any chance you have men heading to Maybury Hill? We were trying to head that way, but there's strange things abroad."

Anderson looked out over the quiet fields, the dotted cottages and woods. It suddenly didn't feel peaceful. Instead of an English vista he saw ambush sites, firing positions, deadfalls. It was not a pleasant feeling, seeing your homeland turn into a warzone. He felt a pang of guilt momentarily.

"What about this ray?"

"It was on a rod. Or something. Seemed to blast nigh everything within range."

The Sergeant spoke, leaning forward, "What was its range?"

Ogilvy shook his head, "Not sure. A hundred yards at least, perhaps more. You can imagine we did not exactly stay to take measurements."

The Sergeant leaned back with a "tisk." Anderson sighed, then nodded at the civilians, "We are pushing towards Woking, but not headed there. Keep pace with the column, any wounded we have a wagon, load them up. Sergeant, remind your colleague with the wagons, he needs to secure the station if it is not already firmly secure, set the bodies back to London and ensure the rapid debarkation of relief troops from Aldershot."

"Yessir."

The Sergeant wheeled and set back to the wagons. The Cavalry lieutenant and shifted in his saddle, "And securing the villages, sir?"

"We need an understanding of their dispositions. Reconnoitre East, Halstead, Sheerwater then down to Byfleet. We will push Southwest and secure Horsell."

"Sir!"

The cavalryman turned and spurred himself on, his troops forming up behind him as he called out orders, sending them off in groups of three, thundering over fields. Anderson dismounted and the crowd parted. He shook Ogily's and then Wells' hands and nodded.

"Well gentlemen, valuable intelligence. I'll send a runner back to the camp to inform them. Head with the main Wagons, there's more men on the way. Once we're in a position, they'll push through to Maybury. If your fellows have sense they'll be secured or have made their way to somewhere secure," He led them away from the crowd as the column marched past, heading down the junction towards Horsell. The wagons split with a small escort and, with the civilians following, headed to Woking, "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"It's like something from Shelly,, Bill," Muttered Ogilvy, "I saw something horrible. They made the dead walk."

Anderson frowned, "The devil?"

"Who knows. They are not of this world, sir. Not at all."

"Any numbers, anything we can use."

The men shook their heads, dumbly. Anderson sighed and nodded, then fished a flask from a hip pocket. He offered it to them, "Keep it. Brandy for the march. Fortify your nerves, I fear things may be at a precipice, gentlemen. Now, back to Woking. Leave this to us."

As the men moved away, he caught a snippet from Wells, "I fear it won't be enough."

Another half mile later was when he heard the artillery sound. As one man the column turned to look back at the common. The guns were firing in regular, rhythmic bursts. There was the underlying crack of synchronised rifle fire. Anderson frowned, but ordered the column on - they had their orders. He was about to turn where, from beyond the treeline there was a flash and a block tree on the hilltop burst into flame. The men around him gasped and swore, visible staggered by the display. The artillery fire continued, another volley exploding on the column causing the ground to shake.

Anderson pulled out his spyglass and peered through. The trees at the edge of the common were thick, obscuring any view of the green; the hillside was clearer but the headquarters was still masked by vegetation.

As he watched, something that blurred the air with haze lanced across his vision. The artillery fire was drowned out by a huge explosion, a sound he realised with a sick feeling in his stomach was that of an entire magazine being detonated at once.

The hillside blossomed with a cloud of black, acrid smoke, along with stattco smaller explosions. As shells burst and exploded still in their casing. He saw trees splinter and fall, flung high by the blast. He swung the glass back along the common edge and could just make out, beyond the trees, _something _moving. The ground shook but this time not from artillery. But from the regular impact of a walking_ thing_.

The men around him were starting to panic, he could tell, "Sergeant! Double time it, we need to reach Horsell. _Now_."

The man, Dickenson he recalled, stared at him, then gestured at the common, "But the fight's there sir."

"Yes and throwing ourselves into it may be a futile gesture. Horsell, secure the flank. Link up with Woking and the reinforcements. There's a Division or so of men back there. If they're having a hard time of it, then we most certainly won't help. Now, am I done explaining things to you or are you going to follow orders?"

He fixed the man with a stare. The Sergeant returned the gaze with only a small glare, but broke off and started shouting at the men. He could see a few relieved faces among them, glad they weren't heading into the unknown. As they moved along, the rearward artillery battery opened up. The woodland of the common exploded into splinters. As Anderson rode away, he could feel something on the back of his neck, as if he was being watched. He looked up as a huge object, trailing green mist streaked across the sky, heading down, down towards Pyrford to the East, closer to London. A second cylinder? He swallowed and looked to the distant artillery - he could tell their shells were falling short though, because a moment later, something let out a wail, a foghorn like cry that seemed to be a laugh, a challenge and a victory cry all in one.

**"Uullaa!"**

Something burst from beyond the trees - a cluster of thin shapes, arcing overhead, trailing grey smoke. The spread out and descended, striking the far artillery with pinpoint accuracy. Anderson watched agog as, even from here, he saw the distant hill blossom with flame. He spurred his horse and barked at the men to move faster. Ahead, the small village of Horsell loomed, windows dark. No green bolts blasted, no alien shrieks came from within.

The column charged through scattering behind houses, Anderson and his Sergeant clattering through behind them. He practically leapt from the horse to the cobbles, the frightened animal rearing and jinking as he clutched the reigns. The group peered out from cover.

"Where the devil are they all?" whispered the sergeant, looking at the houses.

"Same place that last village went. Except this time the buggers pulled out."

Anderson watched as, in the distance, a huge silhouette pushed through the trees. Pines and ferns toppled as if toy pins shoved by a child. He tried looking through the spyglass but couldn't make it out. Not until the thing drew itself up, revealing three segmented legs that extended like telescopes, elevating the machine. It was still obscured by branches and drifting smoke.

He could make out a strange grey and vaguely ovoid hooded body, with four glowing apertures at the front. Metal plates at the fore slid back like mandibles on some monstrous insect and, squinting, Anderson could see the air in front of the thing rippling.

"Get down!" yelled Anderson. The men did so, but a few who had hunkered down behind hedges and stone walls at the village edge were not well placed. Anderson heard the screams and felt the heat wash past around the edges of the buildings. It lasted barely a moment and he took a risk and leaned out from behind the corner of the farm house. The machine was sweeping its gaze across the fields, igniting wheat and grass alike. At the village edge, all that remained of the men were the charred lumps of rifles and the stinking, burnt remains of their corpses - stone had melted smooth and hedgerows were ablaze.

As he watched, the machine, half a mile away, withdrew dropping back down below the treeline.

Anderson sagged back, a cold sweat settling upon him.

"Dear god."


	10. Chapter 10

Wells and Ogilvy had just reached the outskirts of Woking with their impromptu convoy when they explosions happened. The sounds panicked the crowd who surged forwards, ahead of the tromping troops. Men were shoved and horses reared as the farmhands and labourers pushed through the narrow lanes, scrambling towards the low buildings that dotted the outskirts of the small town.

Ogilvy stumbled and cried out as people trampled over him. Wells ducked down and hauled the man to his feet and they huddled closer to one of the covered carts. The troops, to their credit, bunched up but kept pace, marching on as people streamed around them.

It seemed there were more now as people caught up with them, sprinting from cover in tree-lines or from hamlets along the way. It was a scant two miles to the town from the Common but still it felt like an eternity.

The column advanced faster, pushing through the milling crowds in the streets - the panicked mass was pushing past confused locals - many shouted questions at the new-comers, tempers flared here and there as people shoved through. Windows opened and people yelled out from above. The terraced houses here hemmed the road and obscured the views, but still, one could see back towards the common. The people saw the rockets streak through the air, heard the ululation of the monster beyond the trees. They watched as the fields beyond the town lit up, bursting into walls of flame. The small cottages and dispersed houses at the edge caught as well as hot ash drifted down wind. More people joined the mob as people piled out of houses hauling hastily stuffed bags or barrows stacked with belongings. People were crowding over the few bridges across the canal, shoving their way if people dawdled, manners and mankind forgotten.

Wells and Ogilvy trudged along, borne in the wake of the military. Panicked as the crowd was, a man on horse-backed, backed by a column of men has a way of clearing a path. A small market in the town centre was bustling but the infection of terror was beginning to take hold as the smoke became visible over the tops of the houses. Right now, the people here were confused gawkers. It was only a matter of time.

The fear was spreading through the streets; some were rushing towards the flames, buckets and ladders in hand to fight what fires had broken out; others fleeing the edge of town down the streets, heading east to the main road to London, some towards the station.

The wagons pitched up at the station itself, which was cordoned by a ring of steel - men in the crimson of some infantry regiment had erected barricades and were shoving civilians back. Angry protestations were thrown by the crowd, rebuked by a mutton-chopped, ruddy faced Sergeant Major who was overseeing the cordon.

Their own Sergeant, or at least the chap in charge of the wagons, hailed his colleague and the barricades were pulled apart, allowing the wagons through. Credit to the man, he even hauled Wells and Ogilvy in with them.

"You, sir, Major Anderson seemed to think you'd have actual intelligence."

"Well, I am a man of letters and…"

The Sergeant gave him a deadpan look, and Ogilvy wavered, then nodded in understanding, "Yes, indeed, Sergeant. Though I fear it may soon be eclipsed."

"Go with Wickerman here," he indicated the young signaller, "Use the Telegraph. Dictate anything you saw. WO Hemmings here has the trains being unloaded… then we'll pack it full of civvies and ship you lot out."

Wells coughed and chimed in, "But, what about Maybury? And other places?"

The Sergeant shrugged, "No time. Train'll be offloaded in half an hour, cannon and all that. Maybe a bit longer to load civvies."

Wells blanched, "Carrie. Ogilvy, I've got to…"

The astronomer nodded and clasped his friends' hand, "Godspeed, hurry back."

George nodded nervously then glanced at the Sergeant who shrugged, "Forty minutes, mate. Can't guarantee if things go pear shaped. And it looks that way. Can't spare the men, but we'll be holding here to cover evacuation I reckon. Naught but death back that way."

The young journalist nodded nervously, then turned and headed out beyond the barricade. Other civilians gave him curious looks as he pushed his way past the gathering mob. The mob of farmers was being joined by townsfolk, also eager to escape, or drawn by the sound of a mob. Hushed mutterings of some foreign invasion, of explosions, of people being murdered in their beds began to spread.

No weapon of war can be more devastating than fear. It undermines the confidence of man at arms and maid alike, rotting the surety of purpose from within. There was a chance this shouted protest could turn into an animal scramble.

George pushed the thought away. He had to hurry. Breaking away from the edge of the crowd he sprinted along the railway sidings, past low cottages and then vaulted the fence beside the track, caution thrown to the winds. He saw a squad of soldiers, hauling ammunition boxes and large tripod-guns, jog past. He pushed south, ignoring the sound of explosions from the common and the distant screams.

He found his way through back-streets and past small duck pond-commons of these suburbs, until he reached Maybury hill, a long road. He saw his house, whitewashed and undisturbed and put a burst of speed on. As he reached the door, he heard the loud staccato of rifle volleys. Screams filled the air from back towards the station. George glanced back but could only see the billowing cloud of smoke from the burning fields in the distance. He couldn't tell if it was at the station or just… somewhere nearby.

He ducked into the house and called out. He dashed from room to room, panicked, then drew up as Carry rushed in from the garden. She looked him up and down, "George, what's happening? I heard some awful noises, saw some of the neighbours packing up and leaving."

"We need to go, Carrie. Now."

"But George, what about."

"No time, danger," he panted, "_Monsters_. We have to get to the train."

"But we need clothes, essentials."

He stared at her and shook his head, "Grab your purse, that's all we have time for. The train goes in thirty minutes, if we're lucky."

"I couldn't possibly…"

A scream from outside froze them both. George reacted first and headed to the door, slamming it shut. Carrie headed to the window and gawped out.

"Oh… oh my _God._"

A man and woman were outside. The woman had stumbled and the man was trying to haul her to her feet. But she was clearly wounded - her arm was scorched and seemed to be practically melting. As the man tried to pull her up by her good arm, something green slammed into his chest and he went down with a gurgle. The woman screamed and was silenced by a second blast of green. There was the sound of something high pitched, like a motor, along with a strange gust of air that rustled the trees couldn't get a good view but there didn't seem to be anything in the street. A shadow fell on the lawn, cast by something _above_ the house.

His stomach coiled and George shoved Carrie backwards out of sight. Pressed himself against the wall beneath the window and held a finger to his lips.

The sound, a strangely regular sound of air being blasted out, like a bellows in a forge came closer. Then he heard another noise, recognisable - a sort of deep chortle. The sound increased and the windows rattled, then it receded, vanishing into the distance.

George looked over at his wife who was trembling with fear. He tried to smile and crawled over to her, holding her tight, whilst she tried to steady her breathing. She looked up at him, her face setting into a grim expression.

"Train station, yes?"

He nodded, "That's my girl."

"I think you may require your pistol," her voice wavered and he frowned.

"I didn't think you approved."

"I don't. But I fear it may be a wise precaution."

He nodded and headed up the stairs to his study. A moment later he had a small calibre revolver in hand. He managed a rueful look at his wife, "If only you hadn't been so firm on the shotguns."

"Well, you hardly went for the clays these days, and when was the last time you managed to find time for grouse shooting?"

He chuckled and nodded. There was a certain manic edge to the conversation but he ignored it, "Righto. Boots on my love. I think we'll need sturdy."

Moments later they were out of the houses, heading back towards the station at full tilt.

* * *

Bradford sipped at the thin coffee and grimaced - the Brits liked their coffee strong, it seemed. He had escaped the tower for the moment and taken a stroll across Tower Bridge and down the embankment to the Hays Wharf area. The nearby Hospital was currently triaging a number of military casualties, with civilians with lesser injuries being put up in various cleared blocks or in the train station itself.

Well, if you could call crossing a bridge with a contingent of Grenadier Guards in tow a "stroll".

The Wharf was nicknamed the "larder or London" - 80% of produce came through this dock along - predominantly tea. The Brits loved coffee but by God they loved tea more. That or Gin, if some parts of Whitechapel were anything to go by, of course.

Between here and the Docklands, this was the heart of an Empire - material, produce, essentials, all processed here and shipped out, fuelling not just London but the whole country.

Only Newcastle and Liverpool were on a par as major ports - but London was on a major tributary and also the heart of a major railway network. Scotland was fed by Dundee and Leith from foreign import.

Maybe that was why the strange pods had landed in the Docklands? Was the landing an accident or a strategic decision? Was there a guiding hand behind all of this, not just random happenstance?

Too many questions - either way he was over here to appraise progress on their "facilities" - Shen had been busy overnight, apparently, and requisitioned a warehouse for himself - he had pull in this area of the Docklands too, it seemed. Vahlen had also some interesting developments to share. The pair of them were waiting in the Hospital foyer when he tromped in, the guard arraying themselves outside.

Moira led them into a staff break-room, hastily cleared out. He flopped into a chair and massaged his temples, "So, it's been what, 18 hours since these bastards hit Great Britain, no real word from anywhere else and… well our benefactors are being a bit quiet. What have you got for me?"

He rested his cheek on his fist as he gave them a tired shrug. Shen piped up first.

"Captain, it would appear these beings are definitely not Terrestrial in, ah, origin."

Bradford rolled his eyes, "Think we established that, Mr Shen."

The man gave him a patient smile, "No, you merely surmised it. But now having analysed their material in more detail I can definitely conclude that these beings possess material not found on this planet. We have only small fragments based on what is left of their metals, but enough for me to test against various other compounds and raw elementa."

"And that helps us how?"

"The material is malleable, but incredibly strong. I feel, with sufficient amounts we may be able to investigate methods of co-opting it. Imagine it - lightweight, strong equivalents to your current armaments."

Bradford was about to offer a cutting retort when he stopped. Artillery pieces light enough to be carried, but with the same stopping power. Rifles the didn't break under too much heat stress. Ironclads capable of taking a shell.

"This is a kinda good news bad news situation, ain't it?"

Shen nodded, "We'd need forges, as well as time to understand how best to smelt, alloy or set the material. So, we will need much more."

"And I bet every other player out there will want a piece to, right?"

"If they can deduce what we just have. To most, it looks like normal scrap metal covered in oil. They'd have to both identify it as useful and then test it. I believe we have something of an advantage."

"Who is this _we_ though?" that was Vahlen, "The British? Or…"

"For now… yes, the Brits. They're kindly hosting this venture, so we'll be in hot water if we try to cover this up. But I reckon we can use it to curry favour with any others. But… as Shen says, we'll need a whole hunk more of this stuff. What're we calling it?"

"Not got a name so far," confessed Shen, "_Bloody weird metal_ would be my first choice but my Lily says I lack the creative spark of literature. Or as she says, _You no tell story good._"

Bradford couldn't help but smile slightly at the dry commentary, then he looked at Vahlen, "And you, Doctor?"

"I have studied the wounds of the men from your little fracas and come to some conclusions - also aided by useful observations from Shen's people as well as… well the corpses of the dead."

Bradford quirked his lip but nodded, "Go on."

"The enemy appear to utilise a single weapon type, so far observed - notably the veridian weapons that we seem ill able to recover?"

Shen nodded, "Things explode as soon as one of the damn things dies. Soon as one drops the things on their wrist turn to sparks. Good source of metal, but even the internal workings are currently a mystery."

Vahlen nodded, "A puzzle where none of the pieces fit and you lack the original image to guide you. _Also_ the weapons are some form of energy focuser but also a projectile launcher. They do not utilise a shell, or bullet as our calibre weaponry does. No gunpowder. However, we did observe burn marks on both the battlefield and the wounds of the _unglucklich_ soldiers."

Bradford nodded, "So, what, a thing like Shen's phosphorous?"

"Similar. I am uncertain of the transfer process. There were no spent cartridges, no recovered projectiles. These weapons seem to _shoot_ heat. _Nein_, they capture super-heated… elements and fling them from the weapon."

"So… a weapon we can't identify and can't replicate, which we can't understand. Great."

Vahlen smiled and waggled a finger, "My good Captain, _du hast kleine Geduld_. Patience. No, what we have surmised is that this weapon is exceptionally effective against anything vulnerable to heat."

He stared at her, "So, most things. People. Wood. Small animals."

She deadpanned him and shook her head, "Captain, this weapon deploys a huge amount of heat onto a target in a single or series or rapid shots. It seeks to overwhelm with pain and heat damage delivered over a small target area. However, that requires precision. And your little friends are _not_ precise."

Bradford frowned and nodded, "So, what, they've got a gun they can't use properly?"

"Not effectively, _ja_. But that could mean these are just the basic ground troops. Much like your basic conscript."

"So… there's a chance there's more effective troops out there?"

"Like Herr Anderson's train man."

Shen watched the exchange, "Train man?"

"I'll let Vahlen brief you on that one afterwards. You seem to have something you want to say, Doctor?"

"_Ja_. So, to negate the weapon, interpose an item _not_ susceptible to heat between it and the target."

He stared at her then tilted his head, "Excuse me?"

"The stonework around the combat arena… it was scorched, partially melted in the case of some brickwork, but importantly _only partially_ \- the heat was brief and intense, but it loses its ability to transfer effectively. I believe this is why they aim for saturation with burst attacks - to overwhelm a target. Your own soldiers attempt similar with volleys from large groups - this weapon follows a similar principle but in a singular package."

Bradford mused for a moment, "So, what?"

Vahlen gestured her face clearly lost in thought as she postulated, "Metals, non conductive ones; certain types of wood which are not as conducive to heat; leather, for example. It may be an option to, uh, explore outfitting troops, to mitigate the impact of these weapons."

He nodded, "So instead of a single shot taking a man out, we make 'em work for it."

Shen nodded, "I may be able to assist on that. I am sure the British army has its own armourers but I imagine they are not… proactive."

Bradford shrugged, "No idea. But if they're like ours, then their Brass'll want this tendered out to some bigwig in a factory or tender. And I have a feeling we don't have time for that. You reckon you can, what, produce an armour set?"

Shen nodded, "Give me a couple of days to test some materials."

"And what, you'll outfit the whole British Army?"

Shen chuckled, "Hardly. But enough to show the concept maybe?"

"Worth a shot. Now, if you'll excuse me, we've got weird stuff coming out at Ealing and people running scared in North London."

He left the two speaking animatedly, then headed back outside into the smoggy air. The guards were holding a nervous looking man in some sort of bell-hop style uniform - a courier? The man saw Bradford and gestured at the nearest soldier who merely held him back with one hand.

"Problem?"

"Says he has a message, sir. Wouldn't give it to us."

The man nodded, "Telegram, sir, marked urgent. Direct from the Ministry."

Bradford snatched the paper and read through it. Then he read through it again.

"The hell?"

The man shrugged, "Didn't read it sir, 's told to just come find you, give it you sharpish."

Bradford gestured for the man to go and read the message again. _They have…. Long range weaponry? Artillery? MOBILE artillery?_

He looked up at the soldiers, "Back to the Tower. Double time. Things just got hotter."

* * *

The common adage is that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. So far this was proving hideously true. However, Clausewitz had another aphorism handy for the aspiring commander: better to act quickly and err than hesitate until the time of action is past.

Anderson had taken these lessons to heart - one of the main elements of strategy one learned was from Clausewitz at the Academy. Prussian, yes, but with an understanding of the flow of combat and the reality of waging prolonged warfare. Unfortunately, the British Army was fantastic at reading up on doctrine, writing doctrine and talking about it, but rather slow in actually _adopting_ it. And yet it still tended to carry the day.

This wasn't really foremost in Anderson's mind, however. First off, he'd had to rally the bewildered and frankly traumatised troops, pull them up by their britches; get the bodies hauled away where possible and have the NCOs take stock of ammunition and equipment.

Then he'd made them pound cobbles towards Woking - the village they were in was deserted and that likely meant abduction or fleeing civilians. Which meant that most would bee-line towards the nearest station. And it was halfway there that they saw, through the smoke, the bloody _flying monsters_.

Three of them came through the smoke, twisting the billowing clouds from the fields into strange spirals in their wake. A Corporal spotted them and cried out in alarm, causing a sergeant to begin a rebuke. But the man's reprimand died in his throat as the things swept down.

They strafed the column, firing indiscriminately. A few men went down, shrieking, but most the shots, by sheer random luck, just burst against the cobbles. The trio of floating beasts split, coming around but from different angles.

The best thing in a fight is to commit - to decide on a course of action. The _worst_ thing is to be overconfident in that commitment. These beats were very confident. _Very_.

British soldiers are drilled to the point of nausea around rifle movements. Around massed volley firing and bleeding your opponents dry. They're used to facing superior numbers of usually inferior opponents, either in training or equipment. The assumption'd be that a superior opponent, in training or technology would perhaps trump them.

The barked orders overcame shock, triggered the muscle memory, directed the unit, the _whole_ at a single target and ordered _present_.

Forty rifles barked defiance at the sky. A wall of lead slammed into one of the diving beasts. And the thing to note, the rather important thing, is that the British and, by extension, most of the world, tend to favour large calibre rounds.

There wasn't really much left of the thing to hit the ground.

Which it did with a wet thud. Sparks flew as the scrap-and-gore piled skidded over the cobbles to the foot of one soldier, who stamped down on it reflexively.

The other two monsters, shocked, veered wildly away, spiralling up, presenting harder targets. They fired wildly as they flew, most shots blasting into the hedge-rows on either side. A couple of blasts landed true, felling a man here or there. But the response was more lead, more shrapnel into a smoky sky. One of the creatures went into a spin, it's truncated torso spewing black smoke as it descended. It roared as it fell. Or was it screaming?

The third thing hovered for a moment, then blasted away over the trees and unburnt fields towards Woking.

Anderson cursed, then sent a few men to retrieve the second fallen beast - with the proviso of "Alive if possible, dead if it proves too trying."

The exchange had taken maybe eighty seconds. A scant two minutes, at most. And they were down five men, three of them dead. Add to that the seven from the village (Four dead, three badly burned), the rate of attrition was not in their favour currently. And now the damn things could bloody _fly_?

They better not have a sodding Navy as well.

They pressed on,and arrived at the town edge as the second nasty surprise hit.

"Movement sir, from the common!"

A contingent of beasts advanced - scuttling, small grey things - all bulbous heads and spindly arms. But there must have been fifty or so of the devils. All out in the open. Their column was at the edge of the town, where the road entered past some small houses, North West of the centre. The figures were still a good mile away, but obscured by the smoke and drifting ash.

Anderson rallied his mean and spread them out, pushing them with gestured orders into cover behind low stone walls, or ordering them into houses, to decent vantage points. There was something strange - the grey things were advancing slowly, almost cautiously. But it was as if they were expecting to be attacked. No use of cover, they barely hugged the hedgerows or grouped up to advance. Being spread out would mean for harder culling of the herd, of course.

They allowed the first wave, maybe ten or so of the lead _Insectoids_ to close the gap before he ordered a volley, a single section of men only, to fire. It cut down the creatures as the bunched up across the field, clearly closing in on a building, like some strangely choreographed move.

The second wave was more cautious splitting into clumps. Closer to the town they became more cunning. Had they been looking to draw fire further out? Were they that clever?

_They had a giant walking metal monster, that would indicate they are clever Anderson_ he chided himself.

He'd dismounted and sequestered the horse back with the others, in a side street. At the edge of town, the buildings were more sparse, spread out astride wide avenues clearly designed for carts and regular travel. Of course, with the fields aflame or choked with smoke, the invaders had created a problem for themselves as well - just as how the defenders could not see as effectively, neither could the invading infantry - and they made their second miscalculation.

The second wave eschewed an assault through white-smoked fields and bunched onto the road. They tried to keep to the ditches but the men sequestered in the taller buildings were able to fire down on the beasts, suppressing them with steady thick white smoke from the rifles mingled with that of the burning fields, as his men kept a steady stream of lead.

He saw the creatures divert and move east, slipping from sight behind a hedgerow and another more secure path, moving to flank through another thoroughfare, or across another field. He felt a sense of relief as distant rifle fire echoed out, followed by the protesting shrieks of the monsters. Another infantry group, clearly - the Aldershot reinforcements. Clearly quicker to act.

Anderson had been ducking between firing points, chivvying the men, encouraging them, directing their attention towards distant targets. Usually a task left to a Lieutenant, but one of the casualties had been the junior officer. Now he had withdraw to the fore of one of the cottages, the Sergeant in tow, to discuss the next stage.

"Our ammunition, Sergeant?"

"Each man has fifty bullets, we have another thousand in reserve. Nothing larger, though - no Maxim guns, no explosives, not even flares."

"Why not?"

"Gimletson, sire. Bally floater-things, caught him midsection and took out the flare pack. Didn't you see the flash?"

"No, Sergeant, I was a tad more preoccupied with the flying monsters."

"Fair."

Anderson had to suppress a macabre grin. A clatter of hooves drew their attention and the Major saw the Cavalry Lieutenant he'd sent off. The man offered a brisk salute - his uniform was muddy and seemed partially scorched.

"Afternoon, sir. Fine day for a ride, eh what?"

"You tell me, Lieutenant. How were the sights."

"Bally grim sir. Cut about the town perimeter and all quiet until an hour ago. That was when we heard the machine. And when we saw a few more of these grey-monkeys. Caught a few by surprise, dragging civvies back to the common. Gave 'em what fore and good to see they go down to a good cut and thrust too."

The Major nodded slowly, "Casualties?"

"Lost four horses and three men. Got the civvies out and withdrew. One bit of, well, good news - saw that giant metal monster, heading east."

"London?" Anderson held his breath,

"Perhaps, but by my eye looked more to be heading to where that second cylinder was bound."

Anderson frowned, "Securing their own reinforcements?"

"It's what we're doing, sir."

"And how'd you know we were here?"

"Didn't sir. Went to the station, got told by the Colonel there to check the perimeter as they have sights on incoming. Good fortune, I suppose. Orders, sir?"

"Head back to the station, report we are holding the North Western flank. I'll be along shortly once I'm sure we're dug in properly. And if they have something bigger they can spare, that'll help," The Cavalryman saluted, then spurred his horse away down the street, towards the distant railway line. Anderson turned back to the Sergeant, "Frederickson, Get the lads rotating. I hope we won't be here long, but we need to keep the boys fresh. Get them cleaning the rifles, when they aren't on the perimeter."

Beyond the house, rifle fire echoed intermittently as the invaders probed again but were driven back. Small mercy they had no artillery this time around to just level the houses.

Gunfire from the direction of the station fifteen minutes later irked him, but he dared not abandon the perimeter. There was the distant whistle of the train and the clanking of wheels turning on metal. Steam puffed over the tops of buildings. A moment later the Cavalryman returned, a wagon behind him, carrying a group of men…

And a Maxim gun. Anderson grinned, then pointed at the station, "Problems?"

"Not sure. Crowd was getting rowdy when we hauled off. Trying to load some of the poor buggers onto the train. Hopefully it's just the chaps at the front firing for dramatic effect, y'know?"

Anderson huffed. He hoped it was just theatrics, "Sergeant, get the Maxim set up with a good arc of fire. We want all those fields covered, but give the gun an open area in its primary arc. Get the lads dug in on the more narrow points of assault. Hold the line, but be ready to fall back by numbers. I will go and check orders at the station and be back as soon as to relieve you. Or send someone to do so."

The Sergeant saluted and began barking orders. Anderson fetched his horse, mounted and followed the Cavalryman through the town, across the canal and towards the station. As they approached they saw people huddling in doorways, or fleeing down side streets. Up ahead the station was a cacophony on rifle fire.

And green blasts of bale-fire. The two men exchanged glances, then spurred their horses onward towards the melee.


	11. Chapter 11

Two days fighting along roads and hiding in ditches. Two days of cowering in fading light, or ducking into abandoned houses on the road. Two days of watching the Tripods stalk on the horizon.

Two days watching the shells arc and burst above possible artillery positions or infantry sites, raining a black smoke down in wispy trails.

Two days of scavenging what little they could from pantries hastily emptied, or already ransacked by previous scavengers.

Two days to turn the bastion of Empire, this green and pleasant land into a place of snarling faces and brandished knives.

He'd used the pistol once, to scare off a crowd menacing a young woman. She'd run too, in the opposite direction. They hadn't even heard a thank you. Now, Carrie huddled under her shawl as they sheltered in a desolate inn. George peered around the door, then bolted it shut. Early morning light glimmered through the distorted glass, highlighting motes of dust in the air.

"Sorry about this, my love. I should've gotten to you sooner, gotten to the train…"

Carrie smiled wanly at him, "Oh hush, George," she said gently, "I hardly imagine you have command of these Martians to have caused what happened. Circumstance is all. We are alive. And luckily they still had some vegetables in the back there."

They'd hunkered down in the inn overnight, barricading one of the doors to an upstairs bedroom with an upturned bed, then slept on stacked cushions and sheets, with the curtains drawn tight. They'd heard the sounds of distant gunshots, the occasional scream and flashes of light through the thick drapes, but had managed a fitful sleep.

George nodded at his wife and then checked his pistol for what felt like the hundredth time. It felt paltry, really. His mind's eye saw it again, the vision as they hurried towards the raised railway line, trying to get to the station. They'd heard the gunfire, the screams of people and then watched as the train had steamed away, roaring past them, with people clinging desperately to the side. They'd watched a man fall, only to get pulled under by a carriage, crushed by his supposed salvation.

Far off, the station was a flash of green fire and the rattling roar of machine gun fire, coupled with the echoing retort of rifle lines firing. There would be no safety that way, so they'd fled south and east, back into the lanes and roads between the houses, into the country-side.. George had risked a look behind him as he heard another rattle of gunfire and he could see people on the distant rise where the train line ran, sprinting along it, fleeing something. As he watched, a strange _thing_ rose above the rise. Then rose further. It looked like a man, but shorter. He couldn't make out details but recoiled as he saw a distant flash of green and saw a person fall.

The _thing _moved much like a blue-bottle: all jerking and swaying in mid air as it flitted between the fleeing refugees. George had pulled his wife down into a thick copse at the edge of Mabury hill, beyond the houses and they watched, appalled, as another creature joined its fellow, then another. The trio of flying horrors seemed to be toying with the small crowd fleeing along the line, firing in front and then behind them, herding them.

And then, as one, they'd unleashed a salvo, cutting down every man and woman in the group.

It was only after they'd gone that the pair had made their cautious way towards Leatherhead. Carrie had relatives there, but they doubted that there'd be much chance they remained at home if the madness was spreading. Most refugees were desperately pushing towards London.

They'd been forced to hide, cowering, in cellars, or lying prone in undergrowth as strange figures stalked the land. But after two days of trudging and hiding, they'd made it to Cobham, having had to double back and find crossings across canals and through thick forests.

It was late on the day after their fleeing from Woking of their exodus that they'd seen the Fighting Machines, the tripods. Three of them, stalking to the north-west, pausing to unleash a volley of shells. They'd noticed that they seemed to be aiming for villages or large clusters of houses. And that damnable heat ray washed over any outliers. At that time they'd been in a thicket and watched as Cobham was shelled. A few people had been the town, or refused to believe the stories perhaps.

The smoke had choked the streets, that much they could see from their hiding spot. And no one emerged.

One of the machines had crunched its way over, tall on strange, jointed knees. It had belched steam down into the smoke, turning it into a thick, green-grey dust, then settled into what seemed to be a resting position.

George had found himself marvelling at how the machine, so seamless and strange, opened up - a hatch to the rear had allowed a pair of the strange, bulbous headed grey beasts to clamber out. The pair seemed to be scouting or checking the ground, scraping samples of the dust, then they disappeared from sight between the buildings.

After what seemed an age, the creatures had returned and re-boarded the craft, which rose with a series jerky hisses. Then it turned, ponderously, and strode back west, towards Woking.

They'd huddled there in that scrub for another hour, just watching, huddling together for warmth.

They didn't go into Cobham.

And by happenstance, they were now here, near Leatherhead, in an abandoned coaching inn. They'd seen only a few on the road; the snarling crowd; the odd figure in the distance.

They left their temporary shelter and walked cautiously down the street. Carrie had furnished herself with an iron poker from one of the houses they'd checked - how easily the thought of scavenging came and elements of decorum fled. Reality was a harsh tutor it seemed. They'd turned down a country road and spotted the thin column of smoke in the distance. With care, they made their way.

It was as they turned a bend in the road that they spotted the source - just off the path, in the treeline adjacent, burned a small camp-fire. A kettle hung between two sticks, hissing gently as it boiled.

"Halt."

The voice was tense, nervous. It was also rather young sounding, a faint warble in a throat not used to command.

The pair froze and looked around. Carrie gasped as a pile of leaves moved and a young man stood. He wore a tattered uniform, an artilleryman by the cut of it. George raised his arms and smiled,

"We, ah, we mean you no harm, sir. Just spotted your fire and hoped to find a friendly face."

The young soldier peered at him, "Hmm, yeah? Last lot tried that line. Shot one and had to gut the other. Wanted me vittles."

George nodded slowly, "Well, whilst we would love some more food, we found some over yonder and wouldn't trouble you. We can… be on our way?" The young man wavered, rifle moving from Carrie to George, and the journalist moved to block a potential shot to his wife, "Please, sir, if you could tell us… are there Martians afield towards Leatherhead?"

The artilleryman frowned then shook his head slowly. He lowered the rifle from his shoulder, but kept a firm grip and made no move towards them, "No… seem to be staying in the west. Reinforcing. Consolidating. If I'm any guess."

Carrie swallowed, "So, why are you here? Protecting a flank?"

The boy laughed, a hollow sound, "I'm all that's left, probably. Last soldier in this land."

"What?"

"I was manning the forward artillery line. Saw the first fight of this war, y'know?" he shrugged then gestured to the camp fire, "Eh, well, if I'm going to die, maybe by some gent and his missus is a more honest way to pop me clogs. Brew?"

Carrie nodded and the three of them moved to the fire, settling down around it. The soldier laid his rifle to one side, but not before motioning to George to set his pistol down too, making him pull it from his trouser belt. Geore had acquiesced then leaned forwards, "So, what happened?"

"Turns out, the buggers are smart. That infantryMajor wasn't wrong - heard him gabbing to the brass, warning them. But hey ho. So, we was set up on the ridge. Had the battery sergeant grousing about how you didn't need guns to shoot a space rock. And then we saw them. 'Bout twenty or thirty scuttling things, like monkeys. Just up and charged out of the crater. Went down like skittles to the infantry. Then we realised that someone had put some sort of bulwarks around the edges of the pit."

He chuckled morosely and George frowned, "Why was that bad?"

"Meant they expected a defence, probably. But also we'd brought shrapnel shells. Not earthwork movers. Shrapnel's great to gut your infantry rush. Standard, right? But dug in? Stuff makes a bang, but it doesn't shift much. So we watch the infantry cut them down, then watched as the buggers start firing from cover. We were a ways off so we could only see the flashes, but the Sergeant let me take a pokey through the spyglass, help find the range of the gun."

"And then what?" that was Carrie.

"It went to shit, pardon my French. We set off a volley to try to dislodge them from their metal walls, or to try to knock a displacement, get the infantry some room to do more than just volley fire - close the gap, y'know?"

"Not really. Done a bit of wargaming and all that, in the lounge at home. Ogilvy and I…. well, it's one thing mapping it out, but you don't get the same…"

George trailed off at the lopsided stare the artilleryman was giving him. Carrie giggled and patted his knee, then the soldier continued, "Well, we fired off a volley and then we saw something just pop up - a crane or something. And it just _burned_ everything. They'd let the infantry show their hand then just roasted them. And then they made us show ours. What do we do? Fire off another barrage, hoping to catch their own artillery… then that bloody machine stood up and _bam_. They waited for us to fire, to show our range, our location, that's my reckoning."

He shuddered and hung his head. George frowned, "You ran?"

"We all tried to. We saw that thing stand up and look at us. A machine shouldn't be able to _look_ at you. I was off hauling a crate of ammo from the wagons at the rear - so I didn't see it until after it'd fired. Got knocked on my front, Woke up, saw the whole camp ablaze. Think I was the only one who got out, tried to run but had to hide as the bloody thing just walked through the trees."

George swallowed, "Think we saw the rest."

"Yeah, saw the buggers head for Woking, I just ran. Headed straight this way. Stupid, was walking through their lines, but they were so focused on Woking for a bit made good time."

George and Carrie shared a shocked glance, "We've been walking since then too. You made good time."

The young man shrugged, "It's what the army does. Only one of me as well. So, you're heading Leatherhead? Mind if I join you? Need to get back to London, report in."

George nodded and the three lapsed into companionable silence, sipping tea from a shared tiin mug. Once finished, the soldier packed his kit and the three trudged down the road, heading for Leatherhead.

* * *

Moira Vahlen was a practical woman. She saw the world, mostly, in terms of problems to be solved and how to apply solutions to those problems. That wasn't to say she was emotionless - she cared _deeply_. But she just believed one could come up with solutions to solve the problems one cared about.

In addition to the strange bodies of the little grey Insectoids, she'd been fortunate to receive a fresh batch of cadavers from Woking only the day before, courtesy of _Anderson_ of all people. She felt herself lift a little - his display of reticence had made her feel a tad chagrined. She had been sure he'd see the merit and need of the organisation, but his refusal had made her angry. She'd assumed him a coward. But now she heard he was fighting.

The situation seemed a juxtaposition and one she filed away for later.

Instead, she pored over her newest catch - a man-like being, with mottled skin at the neck and strangely reptilian eyes. The creature had come with the usual fragmented weaponry, though this sample appeared to have a different configuration.

She'd left that, mostly, to Shen. Their benefactor had arrived at the Tower with a full team of British Military Engineers and Research Doctors. The Engineers had been given to Bradford who had then had a small argument about Shen. it had taken showing the Spokesman the fabricated prototype armour to sway him - and the engineers and scientists had cooed over the fabrication. Meeting Shen had made them somewhat non-plussed but then he;d taken them on a tour of his workshop.

Even Vahlen had been impressed - the man had had his people haul a crucible, forge, rudimentary factory lines and small smelters from the docks. What looked like alchemy ingredients turned out to be raw materials for forging and layering metals; and whilst the Brits had groused a little, the Spokesman had acquiesced. A comment about "sentimentality" had been made, but Bradford seemed a doggedly honourable sort. At least Shen was an equal partner with the Engineering team for now.

She imagined he would end up running it before the end of the week.

But what was most fascinating was this strange beast. The notes accompanying the body had advised her to be cautious of toxins; so now she wore heavy rubber gloves and a thick apron. Goggles and a face-mask covered her head, which partially obscured her vision - but as a scientist she knew caution was paramount.

Justified, too as the first incision brought a stream of smoking fluid to the fore, spraying across the mortuary floor. Tiles hissed and sputtered. She;d been warned to expect a gas as well, but that seemed to have dissipated before the corpse had arrived.

An aide stood to one side, making notes, as Vahlen narrated her findings.

"The subject's external appearance is that of a caucasian male. I would guess its age to be approximately 35 years old, although it's quite likely this is an artificial effect intentionally affixed by the aliens. As we do not yet have a grasp of their blood-works or skin analysis, something I hope to achieve with the samples so far provided, this is speculation. The specimen is roughly two meters in height, and weighs just over 170 pounds."

Her Vahlen cut into the abdomen. One of the medical staff, observing, gasped as she pulled apart the chest, revealing a strange assortment of mismatched organs and a weirdly flexible rib-cage.

"Despite its outward appearance, upon dissection, the creature's unique organ and bone structure is revealed to be distinctly _other_ in nature. The subject's bones are segmented, rather like the vertebrae of a serpent. This segmented structure appears to give the creature a spectacular range of motion, something attested to by witness accounts in combat."

The organs were removed, catalogued and set aside - additional members of the team set about analysing them, making their own notes. Vahlen noted a set of large sacs and made an incision, eliciting another jet of the acrid spray.

"A large portion of the specimen's thoracic cavity is devoted to enormous glands capable of producing a toxin. These appear to be connected via esophageal tubes that could, judging by the muscular placement, expel the contents via ducts with considerable force. I understand from reports that this has not yet been observed in the field; rather that, upon death, these creatures exposure the air to an aerosolised form of this toxin with catastrophic results."

Vahlen stepped back and allowed a junior to continue. She moved around the lab, removing the heavier outer layer, once she was clear of the specimens and the conferred briefly. She left the hospital shortly after, notes clutched in a folder at her side, then took a carriage to the Tower.

After passing through several checkpoints she found the Captain in the main keeps hall. Bradford looked disheveled and on edge. She set the folder down on the edge of the map table and frowned at him.

"More bad news?"

He sighed, "Lost contact with Scotland, most of the Northern cities. Seems they've formed a line at Woking and are fixing the Brits in place at Aldershot," he ran a hand through his hair, "Coupled with that, I'm told that half of Parliament seems to have gone missing after that strike in Westminster, plus London military command is at a loss of how to actively defend the Capital. And I've heard nothing from back home."

"Surely a good thing, _ja?_"

"Nah, seems the telegraph is down completely," he chuckled, "Guess y'all are stuck with me." He shook his head, trying to shake the worry, "No word from home. No idea if they're in similar shakes over there, or if they've got the upper hand. We don't know their disposition, their reinforcement or if this is just a strange last hurrah of a dying planet." He flung up his hands in exasperation.

"You seem to be more than a little stressed,"

"I'm a field man. Give me men on the ground. Not this pie in the sky bullshit. Hell, I can run a company, run a regimental logistics train. But this is… top brass stuff. And Mater seems to be too busy trying to get the Ministry to pull their thumbs out their asses." he sighed, "Anyway, what have you got for me?"

"Some promising things - we know these infiltrators are not perfect mimics. Cursory examination only - some similar traits and trends, plus we may have some unexpected side benefits, but the team needs time to, ah, extrapolate."

"Anything we can use now?"

She sighed, "It is small steps, John."

"We need a freaking huge boot, really. After they've mopped up the Brits, they'll beeline for the city, I guarantee it. We fight off that assault, or they cut off the head of the Empire. They get to the Palace, it's morale victory for them. Can you see anywhere in Britain being able to muster resistance if they hear the Royal Family is gone? Government gone? The _Army_ gone?"

She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, "Then you best find a way to make sure that doesn't happen," It was meant as a reassuring compliment but his face seemed to waver, so she added, "And we are here to make sure you are able to do that. But we need time. Hopefully you can buy us some. And if you do, then at least, perhaps, we go down giving them a bloody nose. I can distribute the report, so people, the police, the soldiers, they know what to look for."

She left and glance back over her shoulder. Bradford had returned to the map and was once more engrossed in it. Hopefully, for the better.


	12. Chapter 12

Shen leaned over his workbench, one of several salvaged from the burnt out ruin of his old… establishment. One of his men had reported the warehouse had been completely torched - he suspected a Red Pole had decided to take advantage of his absence. No doubt he would have to raise this at the next gathering, should it occur. But in his bones, he felt tired of the politicking, trying to balance his role as a community mentor with the more vicious brigandry that was manifesting in his fellows.

At his core, he was an honourable man. A man of his word. Some of his countrymen, newly arrived by clipper with tales from the old country, were more zealous and opportunistic. They brought opium and other salacious things. He knew that the other dockmen of London wouldn't tolerate an overt expansion by the Chinese - and he'd kept the peace by being quiet, unobtrusive and _useful_. But also by cultivating a reputation as being a man of straightforward attitudes and prudent justice. One of his men struck down? The favour returned to the longshoremen and stevedores that lounged on the piers. A man's things taken? Safely returned, minus a finders fee. Ship maintenance? Done at a modest price.

He was not a brutal man. Not an unfair man. But he knew his people were on borrowed time as Europe had staggered towards another boiling pot of conflict. Anarchists, Nationalists, all looked for an outlet, someone to blame if the poor had no food, or the jobs weren't as plentiful. Friends became sullen enemies overnight. And his new… colleagues from the old country were making it hard to not be singled out, expanding aggressively, trying to monopolise sailor roles or docklands haulage jobs.

He moved the pieces of strange metal into another configuration and sighed as, yet again, they failed to reveal their secrets. Then he straightened and cricked his neck. The meeting with this strange society of Bradford's had been illuminating - He'd even met their esteemed "Councillor" - albeit through the curtained window of a carriage. _Exemplo Aliud Libertatem Trimphare. _Latin. What was it with the Europeans and that dead language?

It was a fortuitous meeting, for now he was secure and had friends with influence. He was less likely to be sought out by the Red Poles as they jockeyed for his coveted role. Absence was a risk, but he imagined they would find themselves rather pre-occupied by these other visitors.

He turned to the matter at hand, moving along to another work bench where several of his workers fussed over crucibles and moved tools around, working at the metal and the salvaged equipment from the _demons_. The lady, Vahlen, had also sent over a metal canister, sealed with leather straps, of some sort of fluid. A note, attached, commented on its potent disinfectant properties and advised him it could be used in the workshop in case of injury - the source, apparently, the monsters that looked like men.

Other men in his position would have shied away, or sneered at the concept. But Shen was a practical man: it was how he survived, why he cultivated the mentality he did. He was also a tinkerer, a man who liked to understand the _function_ of things.

And so he decided to test this new material.

A couple of hours, and a few self inflicted burns and cuts later, he found himself marvelling at fresh skin puckering over recent wounds. One of the seconded British engineers, hauling a crate, paused to watch him.

"What you got there, Chinaman?"

He looked at the man over his spectacles, "You may wish to be more specific. There's a few of us here."

The man looked about to deliver a cutting reply, but a harrumph next to him drew his attention as a tall, well built Chinese man stepped out of the shadow of a doorway. The Brit swallowed and glanced at Shen who just smiled placidly, "Uh, well, just…"

"It is something that may save your life, should you persist in being an ignorant ass, my young friend. Now, please put the crate by the others and go ask Shiang Yi if you can assist him with the forge. We need to get it properly hot."

The man swallowed, seemed to war in himself for a moment, but then disappeared to carry out the tasks. Shen glanced up at his fellow who grinned at him, "_All the same, aren't they?"_ said the man in Cantonese.

"_Sadly so. But we may be able to change a heart by persistence. Much to report?"_

"_More sporadic fighting. Seems these beasts are not here to do much besides foul the English mood."_

"_The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so he cannot fathom the real intent," _mused Shen, "_Foolish is the man who assumes the first assault is the only assault. I fear this is but the opening move on the board."_

"_But it seems to be working. The English are distracted, confused."_

"_Do not confuse confusion with lacking direction. They have been surprised. But the Empire, when spurred, is a terrifying foe. It will roll over and crush any who oppose it, Especially if their wealth is threatened."_

"_So why do we work with them?"_

"_Mutual benefit. And obligation. We are safer here, behind their soldiers, helping them aim their rifles, than sat out there, with many seeking our heads."_

Shen sighed and gestured for the man to follow him. They walked around the warehouse they'd managed to have requisitioned - in truth it was a few warehouses, with access to the arches beneath the railway lines of London Bridge Station. A forge, several storage areas and a few workshops were what he needed; so far they had the forge half established, and some benches in here.

But his people were already hard at work; the Chinese weren't just itinerant workers - ship engineers, plumbers, handymen who could turn their hand to whatever was needed, he now had them sifting, checking and fabricating.

Already they had several woven suits of patchy leather armour - fashioned as a set that could be worn atop a tunic. They used candle flame and a pumped jet of oily fuel to test the armour. And he already had some thoughts on the "Fuel thrower" as a possible weapon. Something to add to their phosphorus pitards and the bomblets that the British had taken a surprising liking to.

"_Shaojie, you have fought pirates, the men of the Imperial army, the British and near enough every type of man to grace this earthly realm. What have you made of these newcomers?"_

The big man wrinkled his scared face, "_They are like ants, scrambling. Men I get, I can fight them, see their minds work as they try to find an escape. And most men think of escape in a fight, on some level. These things fight like animals… with fury and ingrained hate. But they are full of fear- you can see it as the tide turns, they panic. But it is still an animal panic. They are… lacking, that's the only way I can describe it. Lacking."_

Shen nodded and walked over to a table. Weapon parts were strewn across it - parts of an old shotgun; a rifle butt; trigger housing for a pistol. Screws, pins, everything. Amongst it all sat a crossbow with a large box atop it, alongside a pistol, one of the older Prussian models. Shen sat and looked at his friend.

"_And we cannot rely on numbers. We must help these British. It will help us, help cement us in their minds, or at least the minds of their commanders. And it will help position us against our… fellows with ill intent."_

"_As you say, Master. They have been surprisingly forthcoming. What would you have of me?"_

"_Go out into the city, see what you can find in the Docklands, what our fellows are up to. And news, any news, of what is happening beyond the city."_

Shaojie nodded and left, leaving Shen to turn back to the bench,. He lifted the crossbow, an old thing of inlaid wood and dark brown varnish, and pull the large crank lever atop it. The box drew back, pulling the draw string. He watched the bolt soar across the room and thud into a corkboard thirty feet away. Then his eye fell on the metal canister and his brain began to turn, like so many clockwork wheels.

Moments later he was lost in scribbles, notes and was barking orders in English and Cantonese for parts, bullets, bolts and rifles.

Here was how he could certainly help. Not just as a glorified armourer. When facing a superior foe, one had to adapt, to fight with the tools at one's disposal, to show oneself to be unassailable. The enemy had the advantage. And it was time to throw something else into the mix.

* * *

The town was, not to put too fine a point on it, _chaos_. The outer suburbs, the scattered workers cottages, were deserted and ransacked. A few bodies littered the street, done in by the hands of men it seemed. The trio made their way through the streets to the market square. A makeshift barricade was set up, but deserted. Towards the station they finally found a crowd, jostling to get onto a train. The locomotive itself looked outdated, the carriages little more than cattle-cars. Evidently additional services were running, for now.

A few policemen were vainly trying to calm and control the crowd and George had a creeping sense of de ja vu.

Sullen faces turned towards them, seemingly ready to start a scuffle here at the rear of the crowd. But faces paled as they first saw the uniform, then the weaponry.

Beyond the crowd that milled outside the white-pillars and fretwork awnings of the station, George realised there were two trains, idling. Steam hissed as the drivers stoked. Ahead a police officer stepped up onto a pile of crates and began shouting names, as well as declaring "women and children first."

Someone in the crowd threw a bottle which smashed against a pillar. They surged forwards, causing the people at the front to scream. The police responded by flailing with their truncheons, beating the mob back.

"In good order! Or _NO ONE_ is boarding a train. Now, do as I say, two orderly lines, North and South. Step lively!"

The rearmost agitators cried out and pushed forwards, geeing the mob up. Then there was a sharp crack and the crowd instinctively ducked as one, turning to the sound. George glanced at the Artilleryman, who had his rifle held aloft in one hand. The powder smoke drifted across the assembled humans as he regarded them with a faint sneer.

"I suggest all law abiding folk of this 'ere town do as the bobby's say, or it may come to a spot of Military law, if you catch my meaning?" To accentuate his point he cocked the rifle handle, ejecting the spent round. In the silence it pinged off of cobbles. Carefully, the soldier slid another round home, "Now, I can only shoot _one_ of you. Then bayonet the next man. So, which two are my ready volunteers?"

George was close enough to see the soldier was, actually, sweating. He looked back at the crowd and was relieved to see all eyes downcast.

"You there, you three! Up front now. Make way you rabble!"

The chief officer summoned them forward and they shoved through the narrow gap the frightened townsfolk left them. The officer shook the Artilleryman's hand and sighed, "Your help is appreciated. And your fellows, sir, Ma'am. You have a calming air about you."

"Need some assistance officer?"

"Yes, sir. My lads can hold the cordon but we need an accounting of the folks. Station staff chucked it in a day ago when the first reports came in. Most of the town, too, hit the roads. Last trains through all told - you're lucky you get a choice! Guarantee you all a spot on one or t'other if you can help us out."

So, they set to it - counting townsfolk through; the weak, the young; the frail. Families, loners. Luggage was pushed to the side, arguments diffused with a glare from the Artilleryman. George smiled at his wife as they gently helped an old woman to the southbound train; Finally a sense of compassion, community.

All was going well, the crowd dwindling to a few vagrants and ne'er do wells. The officers were left with perhaps fifteen disgruntled men (and it was mostly men). One officer brought out a wagon and that was that - the men started piling in, still grumbling.

The air was suddenly rent by a bellowing horn. On the horizon to the West, a shape crested the top of the hill. A fighting machine glinted in the sunshine of a warm, British afternoon. The tripod raised itself up and let out another deafening roar. This time echoed from another direction. Along the hillside another machine appeared, then another. They began to stalk towards the town in long strides that shook the ground.

The civilians began to panic - some tried to clamber out of the train, a few leapt from carriages and ran towards the engines, seemingly intent on commandeering them. George was crossing the footbridge between the platforms and had an unrivaled view of the machines as they bore down on them, crossing fields in seconds, growing ever larger. He sprinted down the steps and grabbed Carrie as she emerged from the ticket office. They dashed forward and leapt onto the footplate of the engine just as it chugged to life. On the other side, they saw a pair of passengers wrestling with a stocker, shouting incoherently.

There was the sound of air being rent, a high pitched wine and they saw smoke explode upwards from the edge of town. The machines were opening fire, pausing to aim their heat-rays as they advanced. Another whine, then another, followed by an explosion and the smell of burning.

From outside the station they heard the clatter of hooves and rattle of wagon wheels as those outside tried to flee. The trains began to chug away, one north, one south.

George saw the Artilleryman dash from the station and leap aboard a carriage to the rear of their train just as they pulled away. He couldn't help but lean out, staring as the machines reached the edge of town. One had split off and seemed to be moving to cut off the northernmost train. With a sinking sensation, George watched as the towering machine unleashed a blast directly at the London-bound engine.

Or it would have, if its hood hadn't exploded as a heavy shell tore through the canopy.

The machine tottered as one leg fell away completely, the mechanisms shorn by the impact. It wavered, then crashed town onto a distant building, sending a shower of brick-dust and smoke into the air.

Passengers leaning out of windows were dumbstruck. The other two titans wheeled, shrinking lower on their telescopic legs. Another shell burst above them, and the twin machines focused their heatrays at the unknown assailant. Part of the town erupted in flame, followed by distant explosions as powder magazines cooked off in the heat

Another shot rang out, another shell exploded against the side of one of the machines, but failed to do more than rock it slightly.

The machine rose and panels slid aside. It shuddered and needle-like rockets roared into the air, exploding above the town. As they detonated, thick black smoke sprayed down, covering the town in dust. No more shots came. No more retaliation from a defiant humanity.

But the trains were away and they watched the remaining pair of machines falter, clearly watching their quarry escape, but struck by indecision. As the train slid across the fields George saw was a set of tendrils extend from the distant tripods as they began to salvage their fallen comrade. He sagged with relief as the train slid down into a cutting between a low rise and they were obscured by overhanging trees and earthworks.

Carrie sagged against him, breathing heavily. She stared up at him, "So, where to now?"

He shook his head, then looked at the driver, "Where is this bound?"

The man spat over the side of the train and grinned, "Portsmouth sir. Maybe you'll be lucky, get a boat to France."

They exchanged glances and leaned against the side of the car. Exhaustion washed over them as the reality they had narrowly escaped death settled in.

The Artilleryman joined them fifteen minutes later and made himself comfortable on the coal tender. George looked up from his dozing wife and shook his head, "Damn close thing."

The man nodded somberly, "If I'd know my lads were in town…"

"In town? Truly?"

The soldier nodded, "Sneaky. That first one? Looked like a point blank round. And if that's what it takes to knock one down, not sure we can win that boxing match. Second lot was somewhere else in town, but shrapnel… did bugger all," he sagged, "One down and we don't know how many we lost."

George frowned at him, "True. But we know they can die. Even the big ones. They aren't _gods_ man. Flesh falters, machinery fails. So, there's a chance."

The Artilleryman stared at him, then quirked a half grin, "You sound like the Rupert."

George smiled, "Oh?"

"Yeah, the battery officer. Nice bloke. Bit dim. Dead now," the man sank back and shrugged. "Best get your head down mate, sun's going down, probably a good few hours before we get there. Oi, mate, we stopping anywhere else?"

The driver turned and shook his head, "Epsom, maybe. Horsham. But straight down to Portsmouth."

"Why?" queried George.

"Ain't just up here that's had queer stuff like them bastards. Strange folk afoot. Some of the villages have straight up vanished."

George found sleep difficult after that, despite the swaying of the engine and the rhythmic time of the gears and hiss of steam. And when his eyes slid shut all he could see were screaming tripods, falling. But when they crashed to the ground, human bodies spilled out from inside.


	13. Chapter 13

A city under siege is a strange the population trying to go about its daily business, whilst the rest deals with the stress and reality of a refugee crisis. Train stations were packed with people swarming in, the sound of hissing steam engines drowned out by the wails and whimpers of the panicking crowds.

They spilled into streets oblivious to the wider plight; irate commuters, trying to find trains out of London found themselves shouted at by wild eyed strangers and grime-ridden vagabonds.

Riots had broken out at Kings Cross as crowds clashed; no one knew why they were fighting, just that tension had bubbled over - someone had shoved someone and it went from there.

Marylebone, Paddington, Waterloo - all rammed with the panicked and afraid. London Bridge had been cordoned off, the place turned into a fortress, part of a wider entrenchment that spanned Tower and London bridge. Carriages were diverted away, barricades stood tall.

But the rest of London simmered; the suburbs going about their business only vaguely aware of the murmurs of conflict scant miles away, the strange green flashes nothing but oddities to be discussed in the pub whilst the "country yokels" were clearly all in a tizzy over nothing.

And that held until the first missiles exploded above Kingston-upon-Thames, Weybridge, Twickenham, Hounslow… other boroughs seeing the flashes in the dawn light. Blacks smoke flooded the streets, choking, drowning the populace in chemical fog. The terror spread from man to man and the outer reaches of the metropolis fled, packing streets and scrambling, panicked, into boats that tried to forge down the Thames and the arterial canals.

Columns of people jostled in the roads, born by momentum and the impossibility of escaping the human tide.

At 7 AM on the fifth day of the invasion, the Tripods began to march on London; an extended line, shelling ahead of their advance, gassing houses and lancing potential artillery positions with pinpoint accuracy. A stream of people were set alight by a lazy sweep of a heatray and soon black-grey smoke filled the sky.

The south of England, engulfed in chaos, word from the north scant and confused. And the world? As if a black shroud had been pulled across the planet.

People scrambled, screaming. It was a rout, a scouring. The massacre of mankind.

* * *

George peered from the footplate of the engine as the driver and the Artilleryman investigated the fallen tree across the line. They had travelled overnight at a slow pace, partly due to the increased load of the passengers all packed together (From several additional stops) but also due to a strange number of obstacles across the line.

He hadn't a clue how far along they'd actually gotten. The air lacked the salty tang of that near the coast.

Carrie stirred and stood next to him, "What is it?"

"Another stoppage. Looks a bigger one though."

His wife sighed then gathered her shawl about her and debarked the engine. She approached the log and glanced at the men, "Shall we rouse a party from the train? Start manoeuvring it?"

The driver frowned as he looked at the tree, then over at the stump, "Hm, may be a good idea, missus."

George called out, "Any idea what felled it? No other trees seem… damaged hereabouts. And there was no storm."

The soldier looked about. The train was halted in a shallow dip. A mile back they'd emerged from a tunnel where the driver had halted them in the dark to keep the locomotive hidden in case of the roaming machines. The soldier had commented on how surely it was best to move at night but the driver had pointed out that the sound would likely travel further in the dead of night - and he had no desire to race blindly in the dark should pursuit become a reality.

The current location was concealed beneath a canopy of trees, the sidings and escarpment a mess of leaf-litter and old timber. They were in the midst of a forest, potentially far from habitation, or at least not visible to any.

George couldn't shake a sense of unease - he couldn't see far, the thick forest obscuring the horizon; the tracks took a turn to the left ahead so there wasn't a clear line of sight in that direction either.

He watched as the Artilleryman checked the stump, then jogged back to the engine. The man's face was grim as he beckoned George down. Carrrie joined them as the driver and stoker walked back along the side of the train calling for volunteers.

"Tree was felled, but by hand."

Carrie gasped, "How can you tell?"

"Only real jagged damage is at the end, with split bark edge - the rest is a smooth cut. Saw, most likely. Nothing burned, so not the tools of those monsters, I reckon."

"By men? With intent or accident?"

"Not sure. Perhaps some sort of bandits? Had a mate in the regiment, proper veteran. Said they had Thugee fanatics out in India who raided trains using fallen logs."

"Cultists?" scoffed George, "Here?"

The soldier snorted, "Hardly. But people thinking they could hitch a ride? Rob a train maybe?"

Carrie shuddered and glanced around, "Then where are they?"

Silence fell between the three. The only sound was the birdsong and the exclamations of the driver as he tried to cajole co-operation from the dulled faces of the other passengers.

"Should we scout about?" hazarded George. He felt helpless, reeling since fleeing Maybury Hill. Something to feel like he was an active participant would surely help. Carrie rested a hand on his arm, her frown returning.

"Is that wise, love?"

The Artilleryman shifted, adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder, "Your wife's on it there, mate. Where'd we check? How far out? Need just thee and me. Best we keep a steady watch…"

A noise cut through their conversation - a low drone, the sound of air being heated and blasted at great pressure. Through the trees the sound of gunshots rang out, distant but audible. The trio exchanged glances.

"What the devil?" exclaimed George. Behind them the passengers were shrieking and starting to panic. George drew his pistol and fired in their air as he dashed back along the train, "You there, you and you. Off. We need to move this train or we're done for. Stop your caterwauling! We're English, god dammit, and I won't have you whimpering like smacked babes when there's a chance. Hop to it!"

He felt himself shaking and tried to hide it. The Artilleryman came up behind him, "You heard the man! Set to it! Get that log shifted."

They jogged back and were joined by a group of men. Ropes were brought from one of the guard carriages and lashed to the fallen tree. All the men began to haul, Carrie chipping in as well. She paused for a moment and shouted, "Look out!"

Ahead on the track there was movement - from the trees burst a fast moving figure - a hovering torso with a face masked by metal. It spied the train and lout out a guttural chitter, then blasted towards them.

Cursing, the Artilleryman dropped his rope and brought his rifle up. His shot went wide, but the creature was startled. It spiralled up and collided with an overhanging branch. Dazed it floated backwards, the weapon in its hand swinging wildly. A shot splashed against the engine frame and metal hissed and bubbled. Steam spurted from a thin fissure in the metal. George broke from the group and levelled his revolved, firing three shots. Two went wide, but one hit, bursting a spray of yellow gore from the beasts' shoulder.

The creature went into a spin and slammed to the ground with a gurgle. The Artilleryman had finished reloading and dashed over to the fallen monster. He slammed the barrel of his rifle into its face and fired. The rockets on the things back whined as they cut out.

Silence fell and George looked about at the stunned men, "Keep going! There may be more!"

The sound of rockets came, distantly through the trees, along with renewed gunshots. The soldier and the journalist exchanged glances, "Guess we know what we have to do," muttered the Artilleryman. George nodded and pulled the last few loose rounds from his jacket pocket, plugging them into the revolver.

"Buy them time." He turned to Carrie, "On the train love.I shall join you shortly." she stared at him, as if looking at a man she had never seen before. Then she smiled and embraced him.

"Don't do anything silly, now."

"In the middle of an alien invasion?" he chuckled, hiding his rising dread, "Hardly."

He watched her dash back to the engine, where the stoker was patching the cracked surface of the boiler with a leather swatch, "It'll hold for a while, but this thing can't take too much of a beating."

George nodded, then he and the Artilleryman set up in the cover of a pair of trees and sighted down the track. Movement behind them drew attention and george saw three policemen, passengers from the train, join them, pistols in hand. One of the men, the Sergeant from the station he recognised. The man nodded and smiled, "Can't rightly sit back and let you gentlemen take the glory now."

The Artilleryman grinned, "Cheers. Pints on me when we're out of this," The sound of rockets came louder and the soldier grimaced, "Here they come…"

Two more rocket-beasts blasted onto the track. They spotted the train first and made a beeline for it, one going high, the other dipping close to the ground. They didn't spy the huddled group of armed men, whose sudden flurry of fire shredded the lower of the creatures.

The one going high shrieked in alarm, adjusting its aim whilst still firing. It traced a line of fire that stitched across the engine boiler and cut down on e of the working men. Another of the hauling fellows squealed and dashed into the woods in a blind panic. George glanced back and saw that the others were holding firm for now… but they were wavering. More steam was hissing from the boiler, but the engine seemed to be holding, not on the verge of exploding.

One of the men pulling on the ropes glanced at the hovering monster and swore, then dropped the ropes to run. As he turned, he stopped. Carrie stood there hands on hips. She delivered a ringing slap to the larger man then stepped around him and began to haul the ropes. The other men glanced at each other, then set to harder, with the fearful fellow returning, shamefaced to the work-gang.

Pistol shots kept the floating horror dancing. It was dodging and couldn't draw a proper bead on either the workers or the engine. With a roar of frustration it dropped low and boosted back into the forest.

The Artilleryman cursed and checked his pouch, "I've got ten more shots. You boys?"

"Seven bullets,"

"Ten here,"

"Down to three."

"Five,"

"Bugger. And I'm a poor marksman with one of these. Give me a 12 pounder and I can land a ruddy shell on a golf course. This thing feels like I've got a fifty fifty chance to even graze them."

The Sergeant adjusted himself in his kneeling position, "Will it come back?"

"With friends, probably," muttered George, "Some of those little scampering horrors mayhap."

The Artilleryman nodded, "Not much chance of one of those walkers at least. Brush is too thick and at least we'd hear it coming."

As if in answer, a flurry of green bolts blasted from the tree line behind them, scorching and burning the wood of the carriages.

"They're after the civvies!" cried the Sergeant, dashing back. One of his men ran forward as well and, before George could cry out, the man fell, his head a sizzling mass of burnt flesh and melting bone.

"Keep low, find your targets!" cried the Artilleryman. The remainder dropped and shuffled over the leave-litter, crawling into cover. In the carriages came the frightened shrieks of the wounded and dying. George risked a look over his cover and saw one of the hideous grey-monkeys firing from atop a tree stump. The way it held itself, jiggling and almost dancing brought to mind a toddler frying ants with a magnifying glass.

He sighted and fired, his round catching the thing in its misshapen hip. It squeaked, the sound more _a thought_ than an actual vocalisation. One of its fellows clambered over its wounded comrade, indifferent to its fellows pain and tried to fire at George. A round from a policeman burst the beasts head like a melon.

A familiar roar drew their attention back down the track as the jetter returned, "Bastard's flanking us! Those little arseholes are a distraction!" called out the Sergeant.

A cheer from the workers signalled that the tree had been move. As one the group fled back to the train, hauling themselves onto the engine. With a hiss, the train began to start up.

"Come on!" cried Carrie. George tried to stand but was forced down by another flurry of green bolts, this time all directed at the defenders. He met her eyes and shook his head, then aimed at the floating beast. A pair of squeezed shots drew its attention away from the train. Despite the fact the engine was moving past it, _beneath it_ the floating horror focused baleful, alien eyes upon the rag-tag protectors.

George heard Carrie's plaintiff cries as the engine chuffed down the line. The floating horror fired off some half hearted shots into the carriages below, then roared to get a better line at the defenders.

The Artilleryman snarled and rolled onto his back, levelling his rifle. There was a loud bark as the heavy weapon spat forth and the creature did a surprised backflip, its neck exploding with gore.

The creature spiralled to the ground, weapon disintegrating as it fell.

One of the policeman stood, suddenly panicked. George swore he could see a purple haze suffuse the air around the man for a split second, before the fellow began to sprint after the receding train. The last passenger carriage was only a a few feet from them. As he ran, his back erupted with green as five bolts of superheated plasma burned away cloth and flesh.

More blasts burnt at the metal rail and wood panelling, setting the rear carriage partly ablaze. The huddled men, the last three, ducked as they realised they were effectively suppressed by the horrors.

But their duty was done - the train vanishing around the curve in the track, picking up speed. They exchange glances.

"Gentlemen. It has been an honour," whispered George.

The Artilleryman grimaced, but chuckled, "Nah, not having that sappy nonsense, you sod." He yanked his bayonet from a belt loop and screwed it into place. Above, green bolts fizzed and flashed. Trees burst from the sudden heats and wood-shrapnels sprayed all over, sap hissing and fizzing. Dry leaf tinder caught aflame and the blaze began to spread on the opposite side of the tracks.

George had a flash of inspiration. He crawled low and plucked a burning branch from the slowly spreading conflagration, then scrambled back behind the cover of their earth mound. Bodily, he threw the branch over the rise and heard it crash into the undergrowth. Moments later he heard a shriek as the flames caught. A brief glance over the top saw that the fire had caught on the dry forest floor and was spreading, blocking a good line of sight to them.

He signalled the others and they scrambled as quietly as they could from their cover, moving down the track. The Artilleryman paused by the corpse of one of the policemen and grabbed up the fallen man's pistol, as well as some rounds from the dead man's pockets. The confused beats were still targeting their old location, but they couldn't get a good read on numbers. Silently, they decided discretion was the better part of valour. Fifty yards down the track, they broke cover and ran into the undergrowth, a howl from behind signalling that the foe had noted their ruse. Enemy fire followed them, but it was spread out, blind firing through the trees.

The train was long gone and staying on the track would keep them exposed, so they vaulted bushes and broken branches, fighting through the undergrowth, trying to find something resembling a wood edge or path.

An hour later they were flagging, ducking behind fallen trees and dodging the odd flurry of green plasma as their pursuers caught their scent again.. Progress had been slow, drawn out. Likely they were stuck in the New Forest, which mean miles of woodland still to go. The artilleryman scrambled in his pack for another round which he loaded into the rifle breach, cursing as he nearly dropped it. He flung himself into cover behind a large oak and fumbled the round into place. George squatted down next to him, then popped up and fired a couple of rounds off. The sergeant took cover nearby behind a rotting log and cursed.

"The hell. Where are they?"

"Four behind, at least. Couldn't get a clear view," The Artilleryman grumbled.

"Flanking us again you think?"

"Aye, if they have the numbers. We'll need to keep going."

George cursed and ducked down, emptying the shell casing from the revolver. He fumbled a fresh set from his pocket into the chambers and clicked it shut, "Afraid I'm not a great shot, keeping their heads down at least."

"Did fine back at the train, mate. Just remember to breathe!" A bolt of green burst against a tree and sent a shower of smoking wood spiraling. The soldier turned the air blue again, then checked over the cover, "Two coming up. Can't see the rest."

George flinched, then glanced up. He cried out and fired, rapidly, up into the tree. There was a screech and a man in full morning suit crashed from the branches, landing a few yards away. The man, no, the _thing _tried to stand but the Sergeant leapt forward, his hand sweeping round. He held is truncheon, a laminated and polished piece of heavy oak. The creature gurgled and went still.

The artilleryman rolled out of cover and fired once, eliciting another scream from undergrowth. There was a faint hiss and chitter and the sound of undergrowth rustling as the beasts assessed.

A bolt of green flashed out from behind them and burst near the sergeant. He went down, clutching his leg. Cloth burned and the smell of cooked meat filled the air. George swung and levelled his pistol but froze.

Three men stood there. No, not men - their proportions were _off_. They all bored thin, silvery weapons, with strange glowing green tubes and protuberances. The Artilleryman swung his rifle round but came to the same realisation that George had - they could take one, perhaps two down. But the third would likely finish them.

The lead "man" smiled and tilted his head. Dappled sunlight glinted off of dark, smoked glasses.

"A good chase, yes. You are done now? Prepared to accept the inevitable?"

The men exchanged glances, even the sergeant who was grimacing in pain. The soldier spoke up, glaring, "Aye, we surrender."

From the underbrush emerged four of the grey monkey creatures. Gurgling with malice, they snatched away the weapons. The tall-men gestured with their weaponry for the humans to move.

"Wise. Yes. Now walk.."

The two able-bodied men helped their wounded comrade to his feet and carried them between them. The monsters likewise hefted their own fallen, the dead besuited creature carried between two of the grey-beasts.

A few yards away they emerged onto a dirt track and trudged onwards. George piped up, "Where are you taking us? To your leaders?"

One of the tall-men looked at him, an unpleasant smirk stretching a too-wide mouth, "Why would we do that? No. No we take you to check you, measure you. _Process_ you perhaps."

They emerged into a clearing about twenty minutes later. It was clearly a staging point of some sort, strangely human-like with crates and pallets. Except these were made of shiny chrome or some strange beige material. Coffin-like units were stacked to one side, filled with a green fluid. George paled when he noticed a _human_ floating within. Off to one side of the clearing was a palisade, four sided, but no apparent bars. The air was discolored and shimmered between four pillars.

"Walls of...light?" murmured George to himself, earning a quizzical look from the Artilleryman. They were shoved towards the strange cube and stared as a wall shimmered out and blinked away. Beyond cowered four other people, three women and an old man. With a strength not apparent in their frame, the three tall-men pushed them inside and the wall shimmered back to life.

They set the sergeant down and the Artilleryman fumbled in his pack for a bandage to keep the wound clean. George sank to the floor himself and took stock of their new companions. They all seemed shaken and eyed the newcomers with a strange mix of fear and pity. He managed a thin smile, "Fine mess, eh?"

The man of the group eyed him and snorted, "If you can call watching your mates get mulched, then yes. _Fine._"

One of the women snivelled and whimpered, her knees tight against her chest, "They just… took them. Stuffed some into the coffins. Others they… they…"

George was about to ask further but realised none were meeting his eyes. He swallowed and looked out beyond the strange walls and reached out tentatively. The light fizzed and he could feel a faint static tingle. The wall resisted his attempt to push through it, despite its transparency.

Beyond he saw the tall-men conversing, joined by another five nearly identical fellows. There were perhaps twenty or so of the grey-things. Overhead he noticed a trio of the strange rockets-flyers describing a lazy circle above the clearing.

He watched as the tall men gathered around a strange metal pillar. At its tip was inlaid some sort of crystal. One of the creatures was using a strange device, similar to a type-writer, or perhaps a telegraph station. The tower fizzed and pulsed. Then , where before there had been no one, there was a strange golden figure. He could discern no features - it just looked like a man in some sort of intricate armour.

It stood stock still, regarding the tall-men who seemed to be addressing i, though he couldn't discern their words. If it responded, he couldn't tell. Then, after a few moments, the thing vanished with a flash.

"Queer days indeed," the Artilleryman squatted next to him, "Sergeant Halstead should be fine. Nasty burn on the leg and doubt he'll be doing much more'n writing reports if we get out of here. What're they up to?"

"No idea. Summoning ghosts, most like. But, if I were to hazard a guess… communicating? Via some sort of intermediary?"

The Artilleryman nodded slowly, "These things have a structure then. No recognisable uniform, no officers easy to tell apart. What's going on there?"

One of the tall-men had stepped away from the group and appeared to be coughing. It waved away a fellow and they noticed some confused expressions exchanged between the human-like invaders. The grey-monkeys didn't seem to notice, moving about as if directed on some silent tasks.

"So, what's our plan of attack?"

The Artilleryman sighed, "Wait. Watch. And hope they're poor jailers."

One of the women chuckled, "They don't need to be. They don't bother feeding us much. No need, can't break down the walls. Don't need a guard if you can't break the door. And when they drag us out… don't fancy your chances much."

The soldier regarded her, then shrugged, "We'll see. One thing though…." he pointed down, "Did no one check the floor?"

The group looked down. The palisade had been set up on the soft soil of the forest. The women and man blinked, not comprehending. But George grinned. The Artilleryman met his gaze and smiled, "Lateral thinking mate. Ruperts don't think us boys have it. Let's see if this lot are as dim."


	14. Chapter 14

A grey-blue haze hung in the air, drifting from the west. Distant "Crumps" from explosions echoed across the streets. From here, on the north tower of Tower Bridge, he could make out the distant silhouettes of tripods. Flashes from heat rays lit up the urban sprawl, which was already sending up smoke and ash.

Bradfords fingers tightened against the stone. Things were going _badly_ that much was clear.

As the monsters had stomped their way into the city proper, the populace had mostly panicked, fleeing in any direction. The streets north and westbound across the city were packed as people tried for stations, meeting other refugees trying to get _into_ London. Riots had broken out at Kings Cross and Paddington, the latter perilously close to the line of advance. South was mostly off limits as the invaders were pushing up from the south-west.

But all was not lost. Turns out some elements of London didn't like being foisted - shotguns had been broken out, rifles fished from attic chests. He'd had a report that one tripod had been driven back after a suburb unleashed a warehouse's worth of _fireworks_ at the damn thing. It hadn't even been able to launch artillery and instead had, according to the young man who he'd debriefed, dropped low on its legs and scuttled off. Its fellows had been unable to cover it, being themselves occupied by consistent gunfire and flaming projectiles from heavy brick buildings.

It was an interesting tactical point - the heat ray burned and incinerated anything in its line of sight. But stone was less vulnerable to a sweep; glass melted, but stone held. Yes, most nearby reported third or second degree burns but they _lived_.

Most of the cheap housing to the west was aflame. And observations indicated that the invaders seemed content, so far, to just force the citizenry to flee. Currently, the Yeomanry regiments and a few reinforcements that had come from the south were fighting a holding battle at the edge of the city. Unfortunately, whilst the tripods were few in number, they were much more mobile, able to stage probing strikes and inflict heavy losses rapidly before an effective counter could be mounted.

And then there was the infantry element - those grey-beasts and their inhuman, mannequin like handlers. They'd had reports of _flying_ monsters as well. Plus some additional, more unsettling reports from the slums, people being dragged away down alleyways and up the side of buildings by hideous insects. He thought that unlikely, but panic had gripped the city.

"Sir, you're presence is requested in the war room,"

He looked at the young soldier who had climbed the ladder behind him. He waved the man away and headed across, descending through the tower. He walked the short distance to the southern gate into the Tower of London and jogged up the steps into the White Tower, passing clerks and soldiers as they bustled about the business of war.

Inside the main headquarters room he found Shen standing with another, larger Chinaman. The bigger fellow nodded his scarred head but said nothing.

"What is it Shen?"

"Zhaoji here has some things of import to say."

"Oh?" Bradford gave the man a cursory glance then leaned over the main map table, "Unless it can stop seven or eight rampaging war machines, not sure I need to hear it."

The big man quirked a grin, "Not even to hear about people pledging their souls to the enemy?"

That brought him up. Bradford stared hard at the man, "What?"

"I found a few of those imposter-fiends, they who wear the skin of men. Preaching in a slum to the east, in Shadwell. Promising safety, salvation. They are running a trickle of people out of the city, via boat or carriage, via other secret means. And, by all accounts, they have been doing similar… since before the invaders arrived."

Bradford sighed, "Damn. But that doesn't help us now…"

"No, it presents another front," continued the big man, "They promise safety to those who oppose _you_ and yours. Likely as not, they seek to sow discord amongst our soldiers, to turn man against man, better to pluck us from the streets."

"Just what need, anarchists. This is bad."

Shen gave a small smile, "Or good. It shows they are having to utilise other strategies. They are not _confident_ their metal monsters can assist."

"So what can we do?"

Zhaoji chuckled, "I have made... A start. _Ning keoi gwo lai!"_

A pair of soldiers hauled a figure into the room, pulling a sack from its head. Bradford gasped. One of the tall-men stared at him, glasses missing, face groggy. The eyes were like that of a reptile, the skin at the neck flaking. Not flaking, he realised, scales being revealed as some waxen makeup dried and came away.

He looked at Zhaoji, "How the hell, man?"

The China-man chuckled again, and swung a compact crossbow from behind his back, where it hung from a sling, "Master Shen sent me out into the city, When I returned with this news, he sent me out again. But with a new toy."

Shen nodded slowly, "The thought came as I pondered on our… lack of understanding. I was dabbling with weaponry, seeing how we can put more damage onto our foes, or minimise that returned upon us. But my mind came back to how little we know. And we know these monsters die rather… violently. Doctor Vahlen had kindly provided me with a sample of the venom these beasts spit and I realised that one can turn toxins into a heady antidote… or a counter toxin."

"Damn, knocked him out with his own god damn spit. Amazing, Shen."

Bradford stared at the creature and shook his head, "Well then, let's get this fellah into some irons, make sure he can't spit at us, then maybe we get something out of him."

Shen nodded, "If I may be present, Captain? I know several techniques to loosen the tongues of men. They may work on these beings also. If they have been fashioned to look like us…. Mayhap they will share some vulnerability."

Bradford looked at the man carefully, but Shen's eyes were hidden as the light reflected off of his wire framed glasses. He nodded slowly, "Take Moira too. Think she'd love to see a live sample up close."

Shen bowed and withdrew, the soldiers and Zhaoji dragging their captive with them. Bradford had a twinge of something approaching hope - maybe they were not so lost?

He glanced at the reports on the table and sighed. Aldershot destroyed, the British Army holding towards Salisbury, but only just. Casualty reports that boggled the mind, But at least the British Artillery seemed to have the Martians beat at range, as long as they could keep themselves out of line of sight of both the tripod heat-ray and any spotters that could call down that damnable black-smoke. What was more troubling was the distinct lack of any reports from areas hit by a Martian artillery strike. Even scouts sent in did not return.

But the Brits seemed to have forced a stalemate that the Martians were content to keep to; for now at least. News from the north was worse - Liverpool had fallen, it seemed, the city of Newcastle reporting serious fighting. Manchester was burning and, apparently, nearly empty as people had scattered. And nothing from Scotland.

News from across the pond was grim. He'd gotten a single telegram that read: _New York Burnt STOP Fighting in DC STOP Continental Army Presence in the North East Routed._

They had an army of 39,000 men in the US. He had no idea how long that would last. The rest of the world was reporting variations on stalemate or nightmare. India was doing well, but then they had the East India Company plus a million men under arms; plus however many Raj soldiers at hand. Russia and Europe were quiet, not deigning to share much officially, but the talk from the Spokesman was that Paris was Tripod free. But not _alien_ free. Bismarck's men were fighting in the Black Forest. Whilst the Tsar was, apparently, _personally_ leading the charge in St Petersburg against some "unknown enemy."

"We could do with a God damn miracle right about now."

* * *

_A History of Planetary Warfare, Volume II - chapter 4, The First Martian War._

_Of course, when we talk about effective engagements between disparate forces, intelligence counts for a great leveller between mismatched foes. The battle of Hastings where William was able to take advantage of both superior ground and the weariness of his foe; the Boer War, when the local Boer skirmishers had superior knowledge of the Terrain; The Battle of Little Big Horn, where the US Cavalry fatally underestimated the Sioux's resolve and, arguably, attempted a poor strategy in targeting an assumed vulnerable point._

_The common debacle between these and other similar incidences? A lack of intelligence around the capability of the enemy, the ability to bring force to bear and their resolve to follow through._

_In this chapter, we will look at how the Battle of Portsmouth is of particular importance to the early phases of the war and how it influenced the direction of combat for the duration of the conflict._

The train rumbled on through the afternoon, full of the sounds of weeping men and women, the groans of the dying and the stench of burnt flesh.

Carrie felt numb, bereft. For a long while after watching George disappear from sight, after the sound of alien screeches and gunfire had faded, she'd sat, huddled in the engine cab. The driver and stoker had let her be.

It took all of her will to force herself to her feet, to clamber over the coal-trailer and into the first passenger carriage. The sound of a screaming child had pulled her, inexorably, back to the crowd of humanity. And so, with her mind ticking over with the same determination she showed when organising the Maybury Hill Ladies bowls tournament or the latest bridge soiree, she'd set to. She'd grabbed the less dazed of the men and women and set them to tending to the wounded and scared. She brow beaten a sullen man clutching a flask of whisky and bade him share it.

For the last hour she'd been pushing, cajoling and comforting. She was pulled up by a shout from one of the women at the window as sunlight flashed through - they were out of the woodline and chugging through fields - untouched, unburned.

Ahead, the blue haze of the sea could be seen, along with the sprawling town of Portsmouth - vessels littered the coastline, bare specs from this distance. A cheer went up all along the train, the fear and pain momentarily forgotten.

The train thundered down the gentle slope towards the town. Gazing out, Carrie spied earthworks mounded up at points throughout the fields, manned by uniformed men. Further back, artillery positions seemed to have been established, spread out and with large wagons, covered in the livery of the Portsmouth fire service, placed nearby. Passing through the town towards the central station, they crossed a bridge over Guildhall way, a major thoroughfare.

The streets were packed with people, jostling towards the stony beaches, or shouting for food and water. Soldiers moved through the throng, pushing and shoving their way through.

The train hissed to a stop at the station and doors clattered open. A guard came past shouting the train would be re-boarding and be heading back up the track, then on to Southampton, that the port here was "_damn near full_".

Carrie dodged past the man as he got caught up in an argument with a small group of belligerent refugees and made it out of the small ticket-hall, into the street proper. Here, the road was clearer and suddenly she felt lost again. She and George had come down to Portsmouth precisely _once_ and declared afterwards that it had been a poor choice.

She wandered the road, heading towards the beach. Here and there she saw smashed windows, discarded luggage, the odd slumped, drunken figure. She wondered why the streets here were clearer, then stopped short as she crossed Victoria park. The wright iron gates of HMS Nelson stood before her.

A sentry stood fixed to attention outside, dressed in the rich red of the Royal Marines.

Her mind a blur, she stumbled up to the gate and began gabbling, trying to explain. The soldier stared at her impassively, then asked her to step back.

"But the train! It was attacked! You have to _do_ something? Dammit, why won't you help?"

The soldier did look wretched, she granted him that. A pair of ratings, sailors by trade had been stood in the guard room beyond the gate and came over. One gave her the once over and shrugged.

"'Fraid it's the same story a thousand times, love. You won't find much pity here. Got our own problems and we're doing our bit, keeping you lot safe in town til you get the chance to bugger off."

"Excuse me?" she drew herself up and stared at him. For the most part the sailor seemed nonplussed, merely adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder, "Yeah, love the bootneck here may get misty eyed. But you lot are jumping ship, not fighting the fight."

"A ship?"

"Don't tell me you weren't here to just hop a ferry, love. It's all you southern pansies have been doing," the man had a distinctive twang, Liverpudlian perhaps. His leer was unpleasant, "'course men like us can be persuaded to show a little charity."

The Royal marine spun at that moment and drove the butt of his rifle into the sailors midriff. The man made an "oomph" sound and went down like a sack of potatoes. His fellow held up his hands and back away, but was staring daggers at the soldier, "Bad move…"

The Royal grimaced, "Yeah, wetback. You go, get maybe ten, twenty of your mates… then it'll be a fair fight. But none of that _shite_. Take your man inside, get the sergeant if you want this to get… serious," The sailor growled, then hauled his friend off, albeit at quite a rapid pace. The Marine turned and offered an apologetic smile to Carrie, "My pardon miss. No call for that - even if tempers are high."

She swallowed and nodded, "Not at all...thank you, I think. I suppose I will have to find some lodging or other. Await my husband. I think… he may have died fighting them."

The soldier frowned, "He was fighting the… invaders?"

She nodded, "I saw some of it. There was.. A tree. Some sort of flying horror."

The Marine nodded then called back to the guard room. A second Royal Marine emerged, "Johnstone, go get that Brass hat, you know the one, rode in with hounds of hell on his heels? Take this'un with you."

Carrie found herself being escorted across an open field, with several low brick buildings arrayed around it. Beyond, she could spy the tops of warehouses and low drydocks, as well as the odd mast from the enclosed port. She was led to a large main building, where the soldier left her with a porter and a young clerk, bedecked in an officer's uniform. He looked barely twenty.

She was shown to a small lounge, and a cup of tea brought through. She'd half expected to be pushed into a cell and interrogated. It seemed they weren't quite sure what to do with her.

Voices drew her attention to the door, where a muffled conversation was going on.

"-tea and scones for everyone with a half baked tale, is it?"

"Burns just thought this one sounded… A bit more sensible…"

"Sensible, eh? Well, there's a fine thing. Alright, not as if I'm planning the defence of a whole bloody port…"

The door creaked open and a figure stepped through. Carrie blinked and frowned, eyes focusing in something approaching confusion.

He was clearly tired and one arm was in a sling. The uniform had marks of mending and the hem of his jacket was scorched. When he looked around from the unseen companion to whom he was speaking he blinked in recognition.

"Mrs Wells?!"

Carrie exhaled, "You're alive sir?"

Major Anderson chuckled, "For now madame. For now."


	15. Chapter 15

**PROGRESS UPDATE REQUEST from CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD via /SELF/**

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

Transmitting Status reports to **/SELF/**

**SUMMARY**

\- Major landmass identified _**AMERICA, NORTH**_**. Local designations ascertained from PROJECT AVATAR assessments.**

\- Population disruption: Achieved

**```Washington DC - **Assets embedded. Securing** LEADERSHIP **designation lifeforms. **Secure. Contain. Convert.**

**```New York **\- Conflict ongoing - 45.7% of Urban centre purged. Severed resistance in dense segments. Watercourses impeding effective advancement. Request **AVIATION ASSETS **to expedite **DISRUPTION**

**```Jacksonville **\- Minor urban sprawl, area purged. Population: analysis pending. Watercourses and infrastructure deficit prevent rapid expansion.

**```San Francisco - **local embedded assets have encountered major resistance. **Recommend: reassignment of INCOMING WARFORMS to AO**

**```Houston - **Major resistance encountered - heavy elements of **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **equipped with low yield weaponry. Elements of **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military formations present. **INFANTRY **forms disrupted, request assignment of **AVIATION ASSETS **to enable **DISRUPTION.**

**Other Urban centre progress minor - listed in ATTACHED DEBRIEF FILE**

\- Major Landmass identified: _**EURASIA**_**. Local designations ascertained from PROJECT AVATAR assessments.**

\- Population disruption: Achieved, partial - **Addendum - less social and national cohesion compared to **_**AMERICA, NORTH - **_**speculation - differing clans / family groups / nation states**

**```Naples - **Pacification achieved - surrounding AO hazardous due to terrain. Population dispersed but challenge presented by ongoing resistance. Minimal **WARFORM **deployment active, due to embedded force assessment of resistance. Recommend **Triad-Deployment **of **WARMACHINE **to consolidate hold and advance on major population centre **ROME**

**```Lyon **\- Pacification achieved. Population dispersed. Heavy resistance encountered -45°49'03.7"N 4°43'36.5"E - **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military. **DISRUPTION in progress**

**```Brandenburg **\- heavy resistance encountered. Conflict ongoing. Advancement towards **Berlin **halted. **DISRUPTION **ongoing. Recommend deployment of **2x Triad-Deployment of WARMACHINE **to enable advance. Recommend deployment of **WARFORMS **to support advance. Terrain and enemy disposition rendering **PROJECT BLACK SMOKE **minimally effective without major saturation. This will require subsequent **PURGING**. Permission to enact?

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**/SELF/ - PERMISSION GRANTED. ISOLATE. SATURATE. PURGE.**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

REPORT CONTINUES

**```St Petersburg **\- HEAVY resistance encountered. 87.3% of Urban sprawl purged. **PROJECT BLACK SMOKE **deployed as per normal operating procedure. Post operational **PURGE **\- **MINIMAL **\- on site asset retrieval in progress - **Addendum **\- incoming presence of **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military. This AO appears capable of mustering considerable forces. Local weather is preventing complete effective deployment. Should **/SELF/ **and ** RESEARCH **target this area for further gains recommend ** BULWARK level deployment of WARMACHINES and SATURATION WARFORM - INFESTOR CLASS release.**

**Other Urban centre progress minor - listed in ATTACHED DEBRIEF FILE**

**PRIMARY DEPLOYMENT SITE:**

_**-KINGDOM, UNITED - **__Isolated landmass_

**```Newcastle **\- Population disrupted, Urban sprawl 96.3% purged. Major heavy metal elements and material located on coastline construction. Elements co-opted for **NORTHERN BASTION**

**```Liverpool - **Population partially disrupted. Terrain and Watercourses interrupting advance. Intercession by **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military has distracted the limited **WARMACHINE **presence and enforced the securing of **LZ - 3**

**```London - Multiple objectives associated with this AO:**

\- Secondary objective - Urban sprawl 3.2% purged. **Clarification - **initial success against **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military has met with delay - prevalence and adaptability of hostile elements. Terrain traversable, hardened structures has necessitated deployment of **PROJECT BLACK SMOKE **\- minimal post operational **PURGING **likely required.

\- Primary objective - **LZ - 1** secured. **GATEWAY **complete - **Addendum** \- **WARFORM **up to **CLAN CLASS - BESERKER **able to traverse. More material and Energy required for construction of large scale **GATEWAY.**

**/SELF/ - ESTIMATE COMPLETION of MAJOR GATE**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

**Pending: **securing of landmass **_KINGDOM, UNITED_ **15.7 rotations of planetary axis.

**/SELF/ - ESTIMATE TIMELINE - LANDMASS CONQUEST**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

\- 4.3 rotations of planetary axis. Current focus:

**\- MAIN AO - ALDERSHOT** \- engaging bulk of **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN** \- military around (**SUPPOSITION) - key staging area for LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN** military.

**\- SECONDARY AO - LONDON **\- moving to **DISRUPT **population. Sever C&C of Central **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **structure.

**\- TERTIARY AO - PORTSMOUTH **\- local embedded elements have **DISRUPTED **transit in co-operation with **CO-OPTED LOYALIST **assets. Moving **Triad-Deployment of WARMACHINES **with **WARFORM **assets to **PURGE and DISRUPT **city. **RATIONALE:b **major collection of **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **with limited exit options. Ideal samples for **PROJECT AVATAR.**

**Summary - Resistance expectation - MINIMAL.**

**/SELF/ - CONTINUE**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

* * *

Carrie listened as the Major recounted his tale. Over the past few days, they had skulked and snuck through empty towns. By all accounts, he'd had to wade through corpses.

His men had held the station for perhaps another twenty minutes after they had fled - no tripods had entered the fray, just a swarm of the grey beasts accompanied by their strange handlers. But apparently they were adapting and had pulled all manner of tricks, sowing panic and discord.

What had forced the retreat was the sudden deployment at range by a Tripod - a salvo of black-smoke spewing rockets. The Major paused at that.

"Lost half my company. Watched as they choked on their own blood. Pardon madame, too vivid a concern for you."

Carrie shook her head, "By now, sir, I think we are past caring for delicate constitutions. But you survived, at least."

"Sheer damn chance, really. We pulled back, fighting withdrawal. They didn't seem to want to pursue us far once we went south. Signallers with us were carrying some messenger pigeons and the like. Got one from command that Aldershot was under siege but that we were to continue south and secure retreating passage to the ports."

Carrie frowned, "That's a large area for such a small contingent of men."

Anderson chuckled, "Indeed. But the British Army is always expected to find a way. So, with my rag-tag bunch of survivors - cavalry, infantry, the odd beleaguered artilleryman, we headed south. Made good time through the New Forest. I'd been given such a poorly thought out remit, I realised that I would actually have some leeway. So, we pushed through to the major port… here. A few set-tos on the way. It seems some of the buggers are using the forest as a sort of guerilla staging ground. We stumbled upon a few camps. I won't go into the details but… they're there. Luckily no fighting machines."

Carrie shook her head and shuddered, "Could George…?"

The Major sighed, "They seem to have moved to taking prisoners, not just the bodies. If he's as resourceful as you say, and with one of our men with him, then he should be fine."

She smiled wanly, "That's kind. But it's hard to hope in the face of such.. .wanton slaughter," He had no real response. He just nodded, "But that's... something to dwell on later. On reflection I now realise I haven't got much to offer in the way of actionable information."

Anderson shook his head, "On the contrary. The submission you've made of their actions against the trains reinforces something I've been arguing for - they're targeting civilians _intentionally_. Not just as indiscriminate collateral. Also, the train being more resistant to their weaponry is… interesting. And, more worryingly, the actions of potential human actors within this."

Carrie studied the man, "That's… I barely said anything, sir?"

"It's not the amount, madame, it's the content," with that, he rang a bellpull that hung near the chairs. A porter arrived in a moment and nodded.

"Colonel?"

"Penderson, inform Captain Gooddard to head down to the station with a contingent. There's a recently arrived engine there currently. Likely being maintained. I want it brought down the line to the dockland station. As fast as humanly possible."

"Right you are sir."

The man departed and Carrie blinked at Anderson, "A promotion, sir?"

Anderson let out a little chuckle, "Field promotion. Seems there's been some strikes in London and Aldershot that got a few of the higher Brass. Old friend on mine, Rich Marter, just got yanked upwards by his britches and is now a full fledged General. Well, Major-General. Skipped the Brigadier bit and that's got a few noses out of joint. They've plucked me from obscurity as the only ranking officer of the Army here. Got plenty of Naval chaps all over, but they're concerned with the disposition of their ships. And the Royal Marine fellows likewise. Their command is primarily down the coast, Plymouth and what not, but hear tell they're being marched up and down to secure every dingy, sailboat and steamer they can for the Crown."

"Whatever for?"

"Potential evacuation of the isles," harrumphed Anderson, "or rather, the securing of non-combatants. And a few politicians I have no doubt."

Their conversation was cut short by the wail of an airhorn siren. Anderson cursed and stood. Carrie glanced about, "What's happening?"

"Seems the foe has decided to make a push our way. Come on, we can get you to a steamer if you hurry."

They moved at a sharp pace, leaving the headquarters. Outside on the parade square sailors and Marines were running to man stations or returning to docked vessels. Longshoremen hauled recalcitrant horses to warehouses and hefted cargo towards the military docks. Anderson was about to wave a man over when Carrie gripped his arm and shook her head, "By your leave, Colonel, if I can stay. I'd rather not risk your men running across down whilst we are about to be attacked. And I would rather die with a weapon in my hands. Not cowering on a steamboat as it gets burned by those monsters. I've run quite enough these past two days."

Anderson appraised her for a moment then, musing, nodded,"George is a lucky fellow to have such stalwart companionship. Very well. We're hardly on the front lines here and, whilst my better judgement is saying I wouldn't wish to molly-coddle you, I have a feeling that won't be the case. Follow me."

They made their way briskly across the square towards a raised tower, a spindly signal tower with flags and masts all over it. The stairs were rickety and looked thrown together, but they ascended.

"What is this Colonel?"

"Observation post - a demonstration model for training, really, for the navvies to understand signal raising. But makes a good place to watch."

They reached the small area atop the post, which was actually a sort of office. Clearly for watching trainees climb across the false mast below, or for checking signal flags. There was even a wireless telegram in the place! A pair of officers manned stations, one peering out to sea and the dock, the other inland. Carrie saw they were watching other signal posts, not as prominent, but still visible, in the distance.

"So, a repeating station, of sorts?"

"Yes, semaphore, signal flags, even requisitioned the Post-masters wireless system as well."

"You accomplished a lot in a few days."

"Mostly all set up. I just corralled the stubborn buggers."

From here they could see out to the hills beyond the city, beyond the low terraces. Carrie glanced down as Anderson gestured to a telescope setup to face inland. As she stared through it, a distant emplacement came into view, the soldiers still small Beyond she saw movement on the hillside - small figures rushing from the trees.

"That'll be their probing wave. So far, their doctrine appears to be a recognition that our artillery is a threat. So, they use these waves of what we believe to be expendable troops to pinpoint our emplacements. Our response, so far, has been to not deploy artillery until the last safe moment. Risky for the soldiers as these things may be fragile but their weapons hit hard."

"Hence those, um, earthworks beyond?"

Anderson nodded, "Bunkering up disrupts their small-arms. And makes the heat ray less immediately threatening. Still got some of the junior officers wanting to march towards them… but curbing them of that trait rather quickly."

As she watched, the trees on the hillside began to shake. A fighting machine appeared, but held back, watching. Anderson cursed, "Not in range. Damn. Well, we'll have to try to weather it," As they watched, the machine rose up and there was a flash. There was an answering flash at the edge of the city as a pair of buildings went up in flame. Anderson stroked his chin, "Not targeting the infantry. Interesting. Maybe trying to draw us out? Provoke a response? Do they feel… threatened?"

One of the young officers looked over, "Movement on the coast sir. Observation tower near Thorny Island reports movement."

"Right, fixing us, for a flank. They're targeting the boats."

"How can you be sure?" Carrie looked up from the telescope, "Surely they'd want to eliminate soldiers?"

"Everything we've seen so far indicates an… arrogance. They don't value their own soldiers, their war machines are a little more valuable and they seem to feel that, even with minor losses, they can just push through. Their goals have been to panic, attack and generally worry villages and towns. And we know they take corpses and prisoners. Here, we have one of the highest concentrations of civilian refugees. And a heavy naval presence. So, they either want to destroy the navy, which they are going a strange way about it… or they want to use the civilians in some way."

"For what,"

"Devil if I know. They could be seeing this as a two-in-one - get rid of most of our naval capacity moored here and a large contingent of trapped civilians."

"Message from Admiral Ridgemont sir. They've spied a fighting machine. It's wading into the water, targeting a passenger vessel, just out of port."

Anderson picked up a set of binoculars and peered out to see, "Yes, I can just make it out. He has vessels on station?"

"One in range sir, the rest are moving from mid channel as per your request. I'll have an update from the runners in ten minutes."

"I'm sure he's on it. The ship?"

"_HMS Thunderchild_ sir."

Anderson nodded grimly, "Godspeed, _Thunderchild_."

* * *

Out at sea, the steamer _Esmeralda_ powered away from Portsmouth harbour, making fast for the sea and the promise of France. The invaders must have seen them, as across the coast they filed. The Captain of the steamship felt his blood run cold. The gigantic tripod had powered across the open fields, thundering through villages, ignoring their empty streets, intent on making the waterline. It was strange to see such a spindly thing move at such a pace. Behind it, on a ridge, stood two more machines - one heading towards Portsmouth, another just watching, legs extended making it look like some perversion of a signal mast.

But there was hope. Standing firm between them came the silent, grey, Ironclad, _Thunderchild. _Slowly it moved towards shore.

The war-machine didn't seem to register the vessel as a threat as, with a whoosh of spray and burst of steam, the Frigate powered towards the waiting Martian. The captain saw the shimmer of heat as the tripod seemed to be staring directly at him. The water beneath its cowl, which now sat a scant fifteen feet above the water, was hissing and bubbling, the intense temperature of the heat ray building for release.

Cannons blazing as she came, _Thunderchild _roared forwards. Shells slammed against the side of the tripod and it rocked, unsteady feet slipping on the silt of the seabed. Metal buckled and the sea erupted in steam as the heat ray discharged, harmlessly, into the sky, the machine toppling. The warlord went down in flames, canopy exploding as something within caught light. Around it, the sea blossomed in a mushroom of steam and bubbling water.

Sensing victory was nearing, thinking fortune must have smiled, the Captain heard the packed passengers begin to shout and cheer. "_Come on Thunderchild!"_

The pair of Tripods paused on shore, as if stunned. The nearest turned and powered into the water, heat ray flashing in rapid, low yield bursts. The water around _Thunderchild_ hissed and steamed which seemed to negate some of the impact of the ray. Metal fizzed, but the ship powered on. It spun about, water churning as the helmsman brought it to bear. Cannons flared again and the beach turned into a cloud of billowing sand a shale. The war machine powered on, pushing through the water, this time charging its heat ray.

_Thunderchild_ didn't even pause, the Captain of the vessel clearly taken by battle-lust or sheer, maddened hate. Or, as the master of the _Esmeralda_ mused, the need to do what must be done.

He watched as the two titans met half a mile out from the beach. The Ironclad ploughed into the legs of the tripod which seemed to _shriek_. **UULLALLAA** _bellowed_ out across the waves.

At the same moment, the guns on the fore-deck opened up, ripping the guts out from the machine. The heat ray discharged, melting the bow of the ship. Entwined, the ironclad began to list. On deck the moans and weeping of the passengers could be heard. The third Warmachine began to descend the hill, advancing like a predator about to make its final strike.

He could see _Thunderchild_ trying to reverse, the water churning as the engine went full pelt. But the corpse of the tripod held them firm. The rear guns couldn't get a bead.

A whistle filled the air. The sound of several projectiles descending, like angels from heavy deciding to carry a tune. And then the third tripod exploded. Or rather, the air around it did. The machine buckled and rocked. The _Esmeralda's _Captain watched in amazement as the invader practically disintegrated under sustained blasts. He turned his eyes seaward and saw two shapes powering through the foam. A pair of other Ironclads - _Benbow _and _Camperdown_. Each carried guns suited for levelling resistant sea-forts and coastal batteries.

He sagged against the wheel and let out a sigh of relief, then powered the engines to full, passing between the two grey behemoths as they powered forward to save their valiant comrades.

_Thank you Thunderchild_.

* * *

"Sir, reports _Thunderchild _has suffered critical damage, crew casualties not known."

"Damn. Anything else?"

The officer looked stunned, "Three tripods down, sir. Benbow and Camperdown on station, in range to support."

Anderson's smile was thin, "Well, let's sweeten the deal for these bastards then."

Beyond, on the hill, Carrie saw the tripod rise and peer Westward. Then a noise cut through the air, an **UULLAALLAA. **The machine turned and she saw hatches unfold on its back, "Colonel, I think it's about to.."

The machine rocked as the tree line exploded in flames. Anderson's smile was grim now, "Had sappers mine all along the front. Well, at key observation points. We know those things prefer line of sight. Heat ray first, then missiles."

Carrie watched as the machine staggered out from the flaming trees. Another machine and another followed it, spreading out and trying to target the entrenched soldiers. Further along the tree line, more monsters spilled out, rushing from cover down towards bunkered positions. Lights of green flashed as they fired. Anderson turned to the officer.

"Inform the Admiral he may fire when ready."

Their observation tower shook and Carrie clamped hands down against her ears. From the enclosed dock, she realised that most of the ships docked were, basically, floating artillery. And out to sea, several more ships, with guns designed to outrange paltry land based canon, were opening up. She risked a glance through the telescope and saw the fighting machines vanish in clouds of earth and flames. The closer-to artillery batteries revealed themselves, hidden under brush or concealed in buildings at the edge of the city. The alien advanced halted and then broke. AS she watched, bedraggled and wounded monsters were retreating up the hill. Through the haze, she saw a single warmachine still standing. It had dropped low, legs splayed like a spider and was weaving along the hillside at speed, trying to dodge the continuous blasts of heavy shells. The ground exploded in huge fountains of dirt. It staggered as a shells clipped and exploded behind the hood, then it veered back into the treeline, trailing smoke and sparks.

Anderson let out a huge breath and nodded. Guns continued to thud then, one by one, ceased. Carrie stared, dumbfounded, "We've won?"

Anderson sucked air in through his teeth, "We've bloodied them. For the first proper time so far. Let's see. We may have bought ourselves some breathing space at least. This way madame; I've got some naval chaps to brief. And to be sure, they'll be gloating about this."

* * *

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Requesting out-of-cycle update-

**/SELF/ **\- **PROCEED**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

**AO ADDENDUM - **Casualty list attached. Summary attached. Adjustment of timeline necessary

**/SELF/ RECEIVED.**

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking__  
_

**-ERROR CANNOT PARSE-**

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**/SELF/ - EXPLAIN**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

\- Request asset readjustment

**/SELF/ - EXPLAIN - ADJUSTMENT OF TIMELINE. EXPLAIN - CASUALTY LIST. EXPLAIN - ASSET ADJUSTMENT**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-

```Unforeseen **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military assets. Redesignate coastal areas **HOSTILE**.

\- Objective - Seizure of **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN** refugees: **FAILED**

\- Objective - Displace **LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN** military: **FAILED**

**\- Objective - Establish Major Gateway (PRIMARY TASK) - **Adjustment required - Adjusting to: **NULL**. Pending **PURGE of LOCAL LIFEFORM - HUMAN **military across **AO - _KINGDOM, UNITED_**

**\- Request: Asset adjustment - ALL**

**/SELF/ - EXPLANATION RECEIVED. SUMMARY - FAILURE.**

Adjustment request - **DENIED**

Limited Adjustment - **APPROVED**

**ADDENDUM - FAILURE STATE = TERMINAL**

-WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt-


	16. Chapter 16

Bradford stared into his pint, lost in thought. He wasn't used to the beer here; well, ale really. It was sharp, dark and bitter. And also pretty warm. Back home, his local taphouse had an ice-cellar where they kept the kegs. It was catching on quite a lot. But here, nope - room temperature and strong enough to knock you off a bar stool two pints in.

Someone had said they had it that way to hide the taste of the water and he had half a mind to believe them.

Right now he was taking some respite in a small pub next to Hays Wharf. He'd visited Shen who was engrossed in more manufacturing - leather overlay suits, some sort of ceramics as well. Plus he had a whole array of rifles that he had the various engineers remodelling - from what Bradford had seen, to be able to take _magazines_ rather than breach loading.

Moira was far too busy going over the autopsy of their recent interrogation. He had read the transcript of the meeting but had not bother reading much on the methodology. He'd seen Moira's eyes - not the haunted look he'd expected, but thoughtful, calculating. Kind of scary, really. Shen had merely shrugged and commented that the "subject" had been fairly resilient.

However, it appeared that, after initial methods had been applied (He'd smelled an unpleasant burning, which he assumed was the after effect of some of Shen's other engineering tasks, but he'd wondered) apparently the subject had been fairly pliable. He closed his eyes and thought over the words, the information.

_Infiltration specialists, they are also expert cartographers and serve as a form of junior commander and coordination specialist for early stages of the invasion. The subject commented they operate a form of… thinking-engine aboard their ships. However, the invaders have exhibited no form of naval capacity. If they have naval forces, we advise the Royal navy be put on full alert, as a seaborne invasion may be pending._

_These thinking-engines are of interest, similar perhaps to the prototypes produced by Mr Babbage and the various analytical machines used in certain accounting and trading firms. Shen has requested we acquire samples or objects of this type, both terrestrial and invader for suitable comparison. Doctor Vahlen concurs and wishes to have an in depth break down of any mathematical or technological developments identified._

The brief had not gotten much in the way of disposition or deployment - it appeared these invaders operated on quite a silo'd approach, broken down into various "Areas of Operation" under the overall command of a sub-commander, who in turn reported to a regional commander. There was the hint that there were one or two of those on the planet, but the creature hadn't know or just had refused to state where.

He took another sip of beer and grimaced. The door of the pub rattled and a young soldier pushed his way in. His face was grimy with soot and sweat - probably recently returned from the West of London. He spotted Bradford and limped over.

"Sorry to bother you sir, Sergeant says to come at once."

"Oh yeah? What's up?"

"Buggers are falling back. Something spooked 'em proper like. I was just walking to the billets before I got yelled to come get you."

Bradford glanced sadly at the beer then, with a shrug, chugged it in one go. He wheezed and blinked, then stood and followed the soldier. The pair walked steadliy over Tower bridge and met the Sergeant Hackett just outside the southern gate and saluted as Bradford approached. He returned the salute, uncomfortable that he still lacked a decent uniform.

"What's going on Sergeant?"

"Strangest thing sir, tripods just up and retreated. They were pushing hard down through Ealing, trying to punch up into Shepherds Bush. We'd blown some warehouses, so they're scared of crossing buildings in case we've mined them. So they had their little arseholes scuttling about, checking for traps. Then, just as they were about to push, we saw them pull back. Outriders and Cav reported by pigeon, looks like they've given up twelve miles. Way outside our artillery, but beyond their own as well."

"A… retreat? Why?"

"Well, not sure. We've got spotty communications. Some short message about a drive against Portsmouth but haven't heard much from the navy-boys. Got a runner down to Greenwich to talk to the HQ there, see if they;ve heard anything."

"Good man. Best we try to consolidate. Anything from general Marter?"

"Last I heard he's had a few of the Regiments try to secure strategic points along their line of retreat, make sure they have a hard time getting back in."

"Is he here?"

"No sir, Horseguards, managing the rest of the wider Army."

"Anything for us?"

"Advice only, sir. Permission to speak plainly?"

"Go ahead."

"Maybe get some lads down there, do some spotting, grab whatever bits and bobs look a bit, well, _foreign._ Can't have too much. Plus we've had some Royal Society wallahs walking about demanding access to bits. That Doctor Vahlen was beating them off with a stick. But…"

"Go on, Sergeant, I said you can."

Hackett shifted, "Maybe I may have contacts in the less salubrious segments of this fair city."

Bradford gave him a deadpan stare, "You're a Sergeant. I was expecting you to be _running_ most of the criminal elements near your barracks."

"I'm wounded sir," grinned Hackett, "But I have… family connections. Bit of Irish, bit of other. You know how it is. Anyway, they have some… extra contraband that maybe the wider Army won't be sparing us, due to our rather odd political status, know what I mean?"

"Which'd cost us money which we…" Bradford trailed off and blinked, "You want us to sell the surplus bodies?! And metal?"

"Well, we can, short term. Can't do much else with it, except burn it, store it. And storing bodies for what? By the sounds of it, there's a ready supply. And better we're supplying it and getting some ability to, maybe, self fund."

"You're part of the British Army man!"

The Sergeant sighed, "Yeah, the same Army that makes Ruperts buy their own uniforms; the same Army that makes sure certain _types_ can't get into certain regiments 'cos of uniform costs. And makes us lot pay for worn boots and our own kit repair. So, 'scuse me for finding an alternative."

Bradford rubbed the bridge of his nose, "And these.. Society fellahs? They'd pay?"

"Half are gentlemen with too much money and a hobby; the rest are rich from their royalties. And they're the ones interested. Worth a shout, surely?"

It was true - their own detachment was meagre and mostly conscripted men, the odd volunteer refugee and Shen's crew. The Army had given him a garrison but most of that was tied up running the HQ. He hadn't got much in the way of a mobile force. And their armoury was pretty basic - the standard rifles, a pair of Maxim guns and maybe a canon or two. He sighed.

"Go on. Set it up. I'll let Vahlen and Shen know. And I need to find Marter. Let me know if you hear what happened in Portsmouth. And whether that's what spooked the bastards."

He strode into the fort pondering this sudden shift in fortune and necessity. Was this breathing space? A move towards victory? Or just the waves retreating ready to crash anew on their broken beach?

* * *

They'd not been captive long,but a fair bit had happened. Shortly after being thrown into the stockade, they'd heard the "thump thump thump" of a war-machine. From their prison the little gathering of humans had watched the trees sway and caught a glimpse of one advancing south. Through the trees other shapes had scampered and run forth, a veritable army of grey and tall-men. But there had been other, stranger shapes. Hulking shadows shouldering through the brush. The sound of the flying horrors. And some other, skittering shapes, too fast to catch glimpses of through their strange prison of light.

The little group had formed a huddled ring around the artilleryman who had dug a small shell-scrap with his hands. He was now sat back, panting, sweat beading on his fore-head. The march of the monsters had passed hours ago and the afternoon sun was waning into evening. In the distance came the sound of thunder, though clouds did not darken the sky.

George was sat near the entrance and was watching the few beasts that had remained in camp. Clearly the invaders had a low opinion of them - a single tall-man and three of the grey-monkeys. One of the greys was going through a crate that had a stack of clothes within. It was sifting and checking, as if fascinated. It reminded George of the Chimpanzee at London Zoo when given a strange object.

The creature gurgled and chittered as it analysed a dress, then a shirt. Then it hefted the Artilleryman's rifle, carried here for some reason by one of the tall-men. Goerge noticed the creature was swaying and he saw it also seemed to have blotches across its normally-uniformly grey skin. Something to note perhaps.

The thin creature that seemed to be in charge, the tall man, approached and snatched the rifle away. It inspected it, turning the weapon over it its thin fingers, eyes roving across the surface.

The ground rumbled again and the humans tensed. A machine entered the clearing from the North, unlike any they'd yet seen - it looked like one of the fighting machines, but squat, with four legs rather than three. George was reminded of a beetle by its shape. Ot sported a set of flexible looking manipulators to the front and atop the vehicle was a vast metal cage. He gasped as he realised that, inside, were people. They were crammed in, lying atop one another. Some were clearly dead, their stillness the unnatural framing of death.

A few groaned and whimpered, which turned to sobs as the cage rose on hydraulics. A pair of hatches opened on the sides of the machine and, from either side, emerged a strange, squid-like… thing… of metal. They defied the natural order as they floated up and lifted the cage, which seemed to float on a glowing ring set into its base. The squid-things guided it away from the beetle-machine, then set it down on a patch of open grass.

A sound cut across the forest, a distant wail: _**UULLAALAA**_

The effect was electric - the aliens were suddenly attentive, looking around wildly.

"The voice of the devil is heard in our land!" A figure was clambering up the side of the cage, "Hear them draw near, in their search for the sinners! DEMONS! DEMONS!"

A figure in a pastors vestments stood atop the cage, waving the crucifix hung around his neck.

"No, Nathaniel, NO!" a woman tugged at his leg. One of the squids surged upwards and gave a lazy flick of a tendril, which sent the pastor sprawling down, back into the cage, eliciting shouts and groans of pain.

"What's up?" the Artilleryman, who George had finally found out was called David, had sidled up.

"More prisoners. But something's going on. New machine as well."

The soldier peered at it and hummed to himself. They watched as the forward hatch opened and a grey creature clambered out, "Maybe we can steal it."

George sighed through clenched teeth, "Well, when you've finally excavated that bunker and can find a way to get past them, that could be a viable option. Know how to drive it, do you?"

David frowned and nudged his shoulder, "Quite the grump without your missus, aren't you."

George sagged, "I fear we are to die here."

"Bugger that. No, mate, digging is a mugs game, with this soil. And no shovel."

"Then why the devil…"

"We just have to make 'em think we're digging…. And then trap 'em."

"I don't follow."

"You will, just keep a weather eye out, see what they do and shout if they wander hereabouts."

The man went back to his scraping and George watched as the aliens began to pull people from the cage. The squids dipped in through the top and pulled people free. George hissed a warning as several were unceremoniously dumped on the ground. One of the squids hefted a pair and floated over to the stockade, dropping them within.

Slowly, the aliens worked through their meagre captives. The dazed parson and the woman with him were pushed towards the stockade, along with another three. Four corpses were stacked like kindling near a set of the strange coffins and the last three people were left, huddled near the cage.

And then, for the first time, the humans saw the aliens feed.

The Thin-man approached a coffin set apart from the others. He tapped a few symbols on the side and the thing rose partially upright and hissed rose out and the canopy slid aside. Abruptly, a squid gripped one of the three, a woman dressed in a torn dress and her hair matted. It dragged her across the turf to the coffin.

She screamed and hollered; her companions pushed forward to try to save her, but the second squid simply wrapped itself around one of them who began to gasp for air. A pair of grey-monkeys tackled the other man and held him down. One of the monsters yanked the mans hair.

It was making him _watch_.

The woman fought, but the metal squid pushed her into the was the sound of clamps clicking into place and the canopy slid shut. Even closed they could hear the muffled noises of whining machinery, high-pitched like a mosquito. There was the faint crunch of cartilage and a damped shrieking, undulating with pain, which suddenly cut out with a gurgle. The coffin churned for a moment, bubbling and making horrific sucking noises. From the side, an unseen aperture opened and a canister emerged. Within was a dark red fluid. George felt his gorge tighten and bile rose in his throat. Behind him men whimpered and someone vomited. The smell of urine filled the cramped stockade.

The Tall-man inserted the canister into a silvery apparatus that he detached from the side of the coffin and then held it to his neck. It made a hiss and the fluid drained. It seemed to shudder, then relax, then it placed the canister back into the aperture. It slid back inside, then re-emerged, full again. The creature reaffixed it to the syringer-gun and administered a delivery to closest grey-monkey. It did it three more times for the others present, then replaced the equipment. It then nodded and approached another set of coffins nearby. These were different, more silvery in colour. With a wave, the two men were hauled to them. Both hissed open and the men were forced inside, yelling and gasping. Then, with a his and click, the coffins closed over them and the sound vanished. There was no sound of butchery, just silence and a faint, hissing gurgle.

The Tall-man approached the stockade and smiled, "Behave. Or else. Yes."

Then, with slightly bow, it marched back over to their salvaged equipment and began to sort through. The grey-monkeys returned to their maintenance of the new-machine and the squids reattached the cage, before settling back into their holding-pods.

David wheezed a sigh then looked at George, then at their wounded constable friend, "Right, that's it. We're getting the hell out of here."

"How can we escape? Our sin is too strong. They feed on the power of our fear and the evil within us," the Parson staggered forwards and pointed at the Tall-man, who ignored them, "They walk among us. Demons! Just waiting for a sign from _him_."

The woman gripped his arm, "Nathanial, hush. This isn't like you! We trusted you, people came to you for help. Surely, surely there must be something worth living for?"

The man sagged, "I don't believe it's so."

David looked him up and down, "Then I don't fancy your chances mate. You dog-collar buggers are all fire and brimstone right up until its your arse in the fire. So, either pipe down and help or just effing pipe down. Or I'll lamp you one, alright?"

The parson glared at him, "Once I believed, without hesitation, that good would conquer all. But what good is truth and love against all Satan's might?" he gestured wildly at the machine beyond.

"If just one man can stand, there must be hope. There are some things worth fighting for, my love." the woman touched the Parson's face and George felt a pang of longing himself, tinged with fear. A cold pit sat in his stomach. _Better she is dead than forced to endure this. Better dead than devoured by these horrors._

The Artilleryman shrugged, then beckoned to the others, "Right, get scraping, while they're occupied. We need it deep, but not too deep. But enough soil to cover a man, right?"

George frowned, but the parson interrupted, "I told them, told them to exorcise the devil! But… but Satan gave his signal and destroyed the world we knew!"

"No, that's not it Nathaniel. They're not devils, they're _Martians_."

The man continued to rant, which began to draw the attention of the aliens. George twitched, then stood. He strode across and swung his fist. The parson staggered and fell, eyes rolling back, dazed. The woman gasped and stared at George. He spoke with gritted teeth.

"My pardon, madame. Your, um… vicar needs to compose himself. And I do not wish the tender mercies of these devils because he cannot comport himself with the dignity expected."

"That was…" the woman stood and squared up to George, "Lay another hand upon him and I will make you rue the day, sir."

George looked at her and couldn't help but chuckle, a sound that shifted into a full belly laugh. He sank back to the turf, tears beginning to run. The woman looked confused, "My apologies, madame. It has, as you can imagine, been a trying few days. You… you remind me of my wife."

"A woman I trust, who would not tolerate your recourse to violence, _sir_." her voice was still soft but admonishing.

"Perhaps. Or maybe she would have been the one to throw the punch. It's a strange time. But, please madame, your…"

"Husband,"

"Oh, indeed? Well, in that case you have my condolences also! He is distressed and sometimes we cannot be gentle or indulge that. If we survive this, feel free to find me for redress or compensation."

The woman eyed him, then glanced at the huddled others, "Beth," she said, extending a hand.

"George. You've met David. That's Sergeant Halstead of the local constabulary.." he introduced the others, their motley crew.

"So, you have a plan?"

"Mayhap," that was David, "We'll see."

"But the soil here…"

"Too thick. But we've got a decent hole here and we know we can probably dig _under_ the barrier if we get deep enough. Which is why I've been digging on the side away from the bloody aliens. Near the edge. Need a bit give, see, enough for a man. And enough to cover another bloke if we _can't_ get under."

George shook his head, "Ruddy hard to keep up, I'm sorry."

The artilleryman grinned and winked, "You'll see."

The ground rumbled and began to shake. In the distance, trees crashed down. As they watched, a fighting machine thundered through the trees, knocking several down in splinters as it came. It staggered into the clearing, spewing smoke and sparks, before juddering to a halt. The humans stared, none having been this close to one of the metal beasts. It stood, lopsided, gears turning beneath torn metal. Shreds of red gore hung from one shattered canopy and two of the three legs look half melted and bent. It stood like a hunchback whilst the aliens gawped in shock.

The humans as one cheered, earning them a glare from the Tall-man. The aliens ran towards the fallen machine, with one of the greys hanging back after a wave from the Tall-man held it firm.

One of the greys clambered into the squat walker and steered it towards its larger comrade. Secondary hatches opened and small spheres emerged, each with four appendages ringing the main core. The group of tiny automata rose and began to emit blue light across the surface of the tri-pod. Sparks flew as they began peeling metal and assessing damage.

"Well, I'll be," hissed the Artilleryman, "Maybe we aren't buggered. Right, enough lollygagging. Get to digging while they're staring."

They set to, feverishly hauling dirt until the soldier gave a hushed "Yes!" They'd made a hole under the barrier and, to their delight, the field only dipped into the soil slightly, They carved out more space and the Artilleryman looked about.

"Right, probably want to see if we can get women out first, smaller see…"

Beth shook her head, "That thing… it's faster than it looks. Chased us down across a field. And those… flying things are made for just capturing people it seems. No, we'd make it maybe fifty yards before we just got caught… and probably… mulched."

David cursed, "Right, so, we need to get out, kill five armed aliens and maybe a tripod. With this lot."

George frowned, "What was your plan B then?"

David shrugged, "Lure them in here, let them see the hole, jump 'em."

"So, let's try the old divide and conquer, shall we?"

David frowned then grinned, "Yeah, lets."

George laid out the plan….

* * *

The grey alien turned at the sound of fizzing electricity and shouting. A pair of the humans seemed to be having a set to, making noise. It blinked, owlishly, and began to amble over. As it stood close by it idly counted the humans in the pen. It hadn't taken note of the numbers before now, but there did seem to be fewer in the pen.

Of course that wasn't its current directive - it had been told to "guard" not to "process". There were no active orders being transmitted to it, no engagement commands so it was, essentially, running through the motions of functionality - the small, still firing slivers of free thought took interest in the arguing, noisy pink animals.

Then it noticed the earth pile. The creature's head cocked and it suddenly flicked its gaze to where its commander stood, distant.

Then the world went black as a rock caved its skull in.

* * *

The young man gulped and dropped the rock. Then he patted the naked creature down. Inside the pen, George hissed, "Any luck?"

The man, one of the prisoners small enough to get through the hole, shook his head, "No ruddy key."

George cursed, then looked at the body, "Drag it over."

"What?"

"Just do it."

The man nodded, dumbly, then hauled the body closer. The shield suddenly flickered out, opening the side of the stockade up. The humans all looked at each other, then as one erupted from the cage, heading for the trees.

The Artilleryman cursed, but didn't try to stop them. Instead he sprinted over to where the aliens had left their equipment.

They heard a shriek and looked towards the tri-pod. The Tall-man was standing, arm raised, pointing at them. Its mouth was open and it was screaming.

The remaining greys turned and hissed, then scampered to cover behind fallen trees. The huge beetle-machine began to turn sluggishly.

George stood, frozen for a moment, then looked down at the alien corpse at his feet. He noticed that the wrist weapon it wore was intact. Part of his mind pondered that. On a whim, he hefted the body up and gripped the creature's arm, aiming it like he would a pistol. Then he noted a little clip on the side. He pressed it and the device detached from the monster's arm. He dropped it and heard the thing give out a groan - still alive!

The device in his hand unfolded, producing a pistol grip. Some form of… modular weaponry?

He didn't care. He levelled the strange pistol and fired. A trio of green bolts flew across the clearing. The first two went wide. The third connected, burning a hole in the Tall-man's throat. It went down with a hissing screech, clawing at its ruined neck. George stared dumbfounded, then shook his head and dove for cover.

Sergeant Halstead was crawling into cover and pulled his discarded pistol from the looted equipment box. He checked it and grimaced.

The Artilleryman ducked down behind the silvery coffins and growled, "No fair, George, why'd you get the new toy!"

"Beginners luck, old boy!"

George popped up and squeezed off another salvo, which set fire to one of the fallen trees. The grey beyond it squealed in frustration and tried to reposition itself, but fell as a well placed round from the Artilleryman's rifle knocked it down.

"Balls, that was my last round."

"Didn't know you had any left at all,"

"Always keep one in a pocket…"

"Fun though this is boys, what about that?" hissed Halstead. The beetle had turned and was advancing. The hatches on the side slid open and the squids emerged, tendrils coiling menacingly. One seemed to stare right at George, mandibles to its front opening like a moray's jaw. Then the pair of squids shimmered and _vanished._

"Oh you're ruddy kidding me"

George felt his blood rising, his teeth clenching. The sheer bloody _cheek_ of all of this. First his friends were driven off, maybe even killed. Then he was forced out of his house and forced to traipse across the land. Then his wife was stolen away and she _could be dead too_.

He watched the air and saw a shimmer, levelled his pistol and fired. There was a mechanical whine and a squid shimmered into existence pinwheeling over and over. It flailed tentacles and exploded in a shower of sparks.

There was a shriek behind them and George looked at his comrades. "It's gone after the others!"

David swore, "Right, you go stop it. I'll see what we can do with… this thing. Halstead, need you to get to cover mate. Still another little grey bastard about. And maybe the driver of the big bastard over there."

Halstead grunted and shuffled along behind cover. The Beetle advanced, slowly, almost cautiously - the driver now without a commander, it was unsure. Task programming vied against the fact it was in a pure combat situation.

George glanced back as he dashed into the treeline, and saw David vaulting the coffin and charging the beetle. He paused for a moment and saw the man slide under a swiping claw. The soldier tumble and scrambled to his feet and then clambered onto the side of the machine. George shook his head as he watched the Artilleryman hammer on the side of the machine with the butt of his rifle, then turned and dashed into the woods.

A short way along, he found the squid, wrapped around a figure. He paled as he realised it was Beth. Her eyes were closed and her tongue was starting to loll. George raised his pistol and was about to fire when suddenly there was a shriek like that of a man possessed.

The parson emerged from the trees, swinging a branch like a club. It cracked against the faceplate of the squid, which gave a electronic whine of protest. Tendrils unfurled and it reared back, letting Beth fall to the floor.

"Satan! Why would you take one of your own? She was one of you! A devil!" The man was ranting, confused, he face swollen when George's punch had landed, "I renounce you! I CAST YOU OUT! BEAST!"

The air around him seemed to swirl slightly, though there was no breeze. George flinched as his felt a sudden surge of pain.

The squid paused, it's flailing turning to gentle undulation. It dipped low to the ground and circled the parson, spiraling slightly. Then it shot up and lunged. The vicar gasped as he found himself restricted. His eyes met George's for a moment and he saw fear mixed with sudden certainty.

"I am...Chosen."

The squid shot up into the air and angled away, darting through the trees, heading West, away from the fight. George blinked, then dashed to where Beth lay. He checked her and gritted his teeth - she was limp. He checked her pulse and breathing and sighed - still alive, barely. Gently, he lifted her and carried her to the shade of a tree. There was a sudden crash nearby and he saw the beetle. It crunched through the undergrowth the sagged and collapsed. The canopy hissed open and the Artillery man stumbled out, face bloodied and one arm hanging awkwardly.

George stared, "What?"

The Artilleryman sagged and leaned against the machine, "Bugger… wouldn't let me drive."

"What."

"Well, cracked the glass. Then Halstad got into a fight with that other Grey bastard…. And it gets a bit blurry. Then this bastard tries shooting me but steers the whole thing into the tripod… oh that…. That's broken now too, again. More'so.."

"What?" He approached the soldier and checked his head, "Concussion, if I'm any judge. Sit down, take a breath." He walked back to where Beth lay and lifted her gently, carrying her to lay her next to the Artilleryman, "huddle up, stay warm, that'll stave off the shock."

"How… how'd y'know?" slurred the soldier.

"Done my share of sporting events where people get hurt. Even a bit of camping."

"Heh, bet you were useless."

"Not far off."

He helped the Artilleryman settle and checked Beth again, then spared a glance att the ruined corpse of the grey thing in the canopy. The inside of the machine was, actually rather spacious, clearly room for passengers or crew, with weird seats arrayed in a semi circle to the rear of the "head" of the machine. It was tall, just slightly taller than an omnibus, not counting the cage, but slumped down it looked diminished, with the "head" lollin revealing he seated interior. He didn't look at the controls too intently - seeing only dials and strange glass panels, as well as levers and pedals.

"Oi! Give me a hand!"

George glanced around the hulk and saw Halstead limping their way, using a branch as a crutch. George hurried across the debris and helped him along, "Still alive then?"

"Oh aye. No thanks to your maniac friend. Clearings damn near burned to a crisp after he tried to ride that thing like a fairground attraction. Bloody tripod exploded, sent those floating balls with it."

"You're… unharmed? Any more than before I mean."

The policeman chuckled, "Had a little grey sod try to do something to me. It had a clear shot at me but just touched its head instead and I felt woozy. But then I got a spurt on, managed to tackle the little bastard and gave it a good seeing to."

"Anything left of the camp?"

"Just those queer coffins and some crates."

They were distracted by a whirr and they tense. A single sphere was drifting lazily along, sparking gently. It ignored them and floated up to the fallen Beetle. Blue light played across the hull and the thing began to _repair_ the machine.

They watched in silent amazement as the smoke faded and sparks dimmed. Then, with an electronic whirr the Beetle came back to life, lurching slightly as it straightened its legs. The drone hovered over the machine, then slotted back into a dock on the beetles back.

Halstead and George exchanged a glance, "Maybe he had a point?"

The policeman grinned, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

* * *

It was evening and the watch was just changing. A commotion from the watchtowers sent men scrambling and sirens wailing. Artillery and ships canons were raised, men tensed. The commander was sent for.

Anderson climbed the tower for the second time that day, grumbling at inconsiderate aliens and their lack of respect for allowing a good nights sleep. At the top an officer handed him a set of binoculars and pointed him at the forests edge.

"Incoming there sir, new configuration. Ready to fire by flare command. We have the area zeroed in for three vessels and local artillery."

Anderson watched. Then he blinked, rubbed his eyes and squinted, trying to adjust for fading light. He chuckled. It extended into a full belly laugh, then he handed the binoculars back.

"I don't think the aliens know what a white flag means, Lieutenant. Nor have I seen them let people ride atop their machines, nor their machines driven so badly. Get some chaps out there to help those fellows into town. I think we're about to hear a tale or two."

On the ridge line trudged a squat, metal beetle of a machine. Behind it, it dragged a metal pallet stacked with coffins and crates. A small column of people followed, whilst atop it stood a man in tweed, waving a white flag on a branch.

At the sight of Portsmouth, George had to swallow. He hoped. He prayed. He wanted to stand tall.

Safety? Carrie?

He hoped.


	17. Chapter 17

Patterson grumbled to himself as he checked and rechecked the cards in his hand. He knew that the inevitable was coming and Rogers smirking face wasn't making it any easier. Jessop, lounging on an ammunition crate nearby tipped his cap up and harrumphed.

"Just bloody fold, Pat. We all know you're ruddy done."

With curse, Patrick "Pat" Patterson slapped the cards down on the barrel between him and Rogers, the Lance-Corporal in charge of their section, "That's another ruddy pay-chit I'm not seeing. Beers on you next time, corp."

Rogers chuckled and shuffled the cards, "Fancy another one, boyo?"

"Nah, bugger that." Pat stood and stretched, then looked up and down their small redoubt - a small pit more like a crater than a fortification. Part of a slowly extending network of trenches, just beyond the range of the Martians. He could just make out, a bit further off to the west, the scattered artillery emplacements and a few other firing points down their line. He stared along at a small group moving down the trench run.

Jessop grumbled and followed Pat's gaze then swore softly, "Cleanup. Jesus, look at 'em, not a happy bunch."

Ten men trudged down the line, using the slats to move amidst the slowly muddying ground. Their faces were stained with soot and oil, white eyes hollow and tired. Men had trouble meeting their gazes as they passed and even surly Jessop blinked and looked away as they passed through their little holdout.

One of the men paused and looked at Rogers. Pat had to do a bit of a double take as he realised that, under the soot stained blues and overcoat, the man was an officer. Young, clearly, but already with the hardening of the eyes from seeing far too much too soon.

"Corporal. Anything to report?"

Rogers was a bit slow on the uptake, but he managed to cut back a snarky comment in time, mostly as he heard the cut-glass accent issuing from the grimy face, "Well, uh, no sir. Quiet three days now, since we heard them pull out of London. And bugger all heading towards Aldershot or Salisbury sir."

The man nodded and Patterson couldn't help himself, "What news, sir? From the clearances?"

The man fixed him with a near-dead stare, "No survivors. But they walk. We've cleared another village to the north, can't remember its name, Deepcut or some such. Burned the bodies, then shot them and burned them again when they tried to get up," The tone was deadpan. The man rolled his shoulders, nodded at the Corporal and gestured in the direction of Woking, "keep a weather eye out. They've got most of the South east it seems, breaking through to the north. We need to fix them here, I'm told, if they try to push through."

Patterson swallowed and Rogers shuffled his feet, "That bad then sir? We can't beat them?"

The officer seemed to realise his words and he shook his head slowly, "I did not say that Corporal and speak anything like that again, you'll be flogged for sedition. We bloodied them at Portsmouth. They can be beaten. No, keep to your post, keep vigilant. And leave us to do the clean up. Pray you don't have to."

The Corporal threw a smart salute up, as did Jessop and Patterson. The officer returned it, then trudged to where his men waited. They headed off, back to the rear of the lines. Patterson doubted he'd see them again. He just hoped he didn't have to see what made men look so… haunted.

* * *

George lay back in the warm water and groaned. He felt the aches flow away again and his muscles relax. It was his second bath in three days, but it felt novel still. The first had basically been from a tin bath with freezing water to get the sweat and grime of days off of him. And that was only once he and Carrie had been prised apart. Now, really, it was a reminder of just what they'd waded through. A near week of mud, sleeping under stars and running without change of clothes or more than stream-water for washing wore on one not of a military bent.

The bath room of the Officers mess in HMS Nelson was a communal affair, several tubs arrayed next to each other, bare pipes pumping out heat to keep the room itself warm. Inlaid oak and brass coat-hangers, quality ceramic tubs and racks full of shaving soaps and ointments. It felt decadent, but then the navy always did get the most money of the services from the War office, as his various journalistic colleagues told him.

_You ever get a government correspondent role, hope it's with the Naval office. Army just sends you to places like ruddy Crimea_ one friend had told him.

His arms lolled out of the water and draped over the side of the bath. A hand reached out and gripped his gently. He smiled and looked over to the other bath where Carrie lounged. The Major… well, the _Colonel_ had basically given them permission to recuperate. Which meant they were being left alone for now. The Naval chaps had practically turned blue when the man had let them into the Mess, with a _woman_ no less. But they'd had it pointed out that they could bluster all they wanted when they drove a Martian war machine onto the base themselves.

The past few days had been hectic - debriefs, visiting the Artilleryman, David, in the infirmary where he was recovering well, alongside Halstead. They'd rode the machine through Portsmouth as if it was a ticker-tape parade. A band had followed them, made up of people just spilling from their homes, instruments in hand, playing a slightly off-tune note of _Rule Britannia._

They'd been met by a cohort of cavalry and escorted into the City, where the base had welcomed them with open arms and astonished expressions. The refugees they'd had with them, the former prisoners, had been whisked off for treatment and "interviews"; the cargo they'd towed in was likewise seized, the coffins and metal crates set aside with mixtures of trepidation and reverence.

And then the incessant interrogations, the incredulous faces, the stark disbelief. Which was rather countered by the _thirty foot long mechanical spider_ in a warehouse. His pistol had been taken but Anderson had taken an interest in it and seemed to have taken ownership for some unknown reason. Likely worried the navy would stick it in a warehouse and forget about it.

And then, yesterday morning, the man had taken a freight ship, loaded with some bits of their seized hoard and set sail. Apparently, so someone had mentioned in the Mess dining room, for London, as the roads and rail were now too treacherous. Carrie and he had watched as the ship had chugged out of the docks, followed by a vessel called _Benbow_ \- a massive ironclad.

So now, here they sat, in some form of limbo. Not enlisted men or women, but in some sort of level of understanding as, perhaps, experts. He didn't know how long they'd be here for, before the military grew tired and pushed them out with the other crowded refugees. In his mind, they weren't that special. But right now he was savouring it.

Carrie glanced over, "Penny for your thoughts?"

He smiled back at her, "Blessed, my love. Blessed."

It wouldn't last, he knew. But for now, he would hold on to it.

* * *

Bradford stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together, eliciting a smirk from Shen. His man, Zhaoji, stood nearby, quietly conversing with another Chinaman. Bradford sighed, "Something funny, sir?"

"Just that you are still not adapted to this country's… unique attitude to weather."

The Captain couldn't help but crack his own smile at Shen's dry delivery, "Yeah, nearly summer and we get rain and fog. I thought people back home were joking, y'know? 'Pack a raincoat, John!' Never take the damn thing off, more like."

True, the near ever-present pall of smoke that hung over London, mingling with the smog, had done nothing good for warmth or rain prevention. Now it was a mixture of either muggy damp or freezing morning drizzle. They were stood atop a small building, overlooking a warehouse and lumber yard in the eastern part of London, beyond Whitechapel.

Zhaojie came over to join them and nodded respectfully to Bradford. Shen glanced at his aid and sighed, "Much as I enjoy woodwork, my friend, why have you pulled me here from my crucible?"

Bradford was inclined to agree. And wondering why the man had asked him to bring a group of their soldiers with them. The men were hunkered down in the warehouse beneath their feet, clad in the leather apparel recently manufactured by Shen's workshops. A few even carried crossbows and rifles now upgraded with _magazines_. He knew he could catch some shrapnel from the Brits for breaking their weaponry, but the man had worked miracles in only a few days. But then, give a man fifty engineers and a huge workshop, of course he was ahead of the game.

Zhaojie pointed and they saw a small group of men walk into the lumber-yard, glancing around surreptitiously. Bradford and his group were concealed by not just mist, but chimneys and guttering. Provided they didn't move too fast, of course.

As they watched, another group of men emerged from the other side of the yard. Taller and all clad in the same funeral garb. Bradford swore under his breath and looked at Zhaojie.

"Collaborators?"

Zhaojie shrugged, "They are Irish, I am given to understand. So, they were not exactly loyal to begin with, I believe."

Shen chuckled, "Wartime makes strange bedfellows."

"Brits ain't gonna like this."

Zhaojie nodded, "So you see why I thought this urgent."

Bradford nodded, then turned to a Sergeant standing near the stairwell, "Get the guys downstairs ready to go. I want all exits to that place covered. Prisoners if possible. We need more intelligence. So, if you can stop them executing traitors at their first opportunity?"

The man chuckled darkly but nodded, "Right-o sir."

The trio watched as the small section of soldiers crept through the side alleys and covered the doors and exits. A few of Shen's cadre of… volunteers joined them, taking up spots with good overwatch. Shen's men had a penchant for either close combat weapons, crossbows or a particularly nasty rifle, a _jezzail_. He'd been told it was actually an Afghan weapon - muzzle loading and with a particularly long range. Shen had, apparently, re-stocked a few of them with bolt loading, similar to some of the currently-tested American variants. Bradford made a mental note to find out where the man had gotten the ideas. And _when_.

He gave a small signal to the Sergeant below, who gestured to his men. There was a crack as they shoved the heavy wooden gate to the lumber yard open and the squad spilled in. At the sides, the other elements pushed in. There was the _crack crack_ of rifle fire as the snipers took shots through the large windows into the opposing warehouse. The muffled cries of dying men echoed up.

In the yard, the tall-men reacted fast. One hunched over and seemed to hiss, though the sound was lost in the distance. It sprinted to cover and began firing the strange green bolts at the gate. A second leapt and did a back flip onto an awning, then began firing as well, standing tall and proud, as if certain bullets could not hit it. The third fell back towards a doorway, but was winged by a sniper and wend down in a cloud of green mist.

"_Watch the gas, nasty!"_ Bradford heard the Sergeant yell. The three Irishmen were apparently off guard. One was cowering behind some barrels, whilst the other two fired wildly with small pistols. Shen winced as a soldier fell, clutching his arm, to a bullet that punched into the leather. The man seemed unharmed and waved off a comrade - the leather had taken the brunt of the shot it seemed. Shen grinned as another man took a green-bolt to the arm; the man staggered but was able to duck into cover, the leather burned and charred but the man himself still functioning.

"A good live-test, Shen," commended Bradford.

"We all know these things work in theory. But it is gratifying to see. Of course," and here he held a small set of binoculars to his face, "The damage seems severe - each piece will likely need replacing and I doubt a second shot would be so easily rendered… moot. But it buys our men time, yes?"

Bradford nodded then tensed. From within the warehouse came a road. There was a tinkle of glass as a soldier flew through a window and crumpled, hard, onto the earth outside. The body rolled and thudded against a pile of cut timber and lay still.

A figure followed burst from a doorway, splintering the wood outwards as it smashed through. Bradford gasped. The brute was _huge_, clearly over eight feet tall. The bulky, green armour it wore just added to the imposing figure it struck. The beast surveyed the lumber yard as all turned to stare at it. Then it pounded its chest once and charged forwards. A soldier was shoulder-barged out of the way, like an unfortunate fly-half caught off guard. The man flew through the air and landed with a wheeze but seemed alive. The creature slid into cover and began to lay down precise shots, pinning the soldiers at the gate.

The Irishmen, sensing their chance, began to retreat. Until one of Shen's snipers took a shot and one of the men fell, clutching at the stump of a leg, blown off by the heavy calibre round. The other two men dove back into cover.

Bradford yelled down, "FOCUS! TAKE DOWN THE BIG ONE!"

The soldiers close to the wall nodded and several focused fire onto the cover, where the Mutant was taking blast of opportunity.

The two Tall-men were re-positioning themselves. The one on the awning was moving to the windows of the warehouse, seeking cover. The one down with the green-beast seemed to be moving up to the wall, trying to get a bead on a soldier. It disappeared from view, the angle of their perch hiding the creature. Bradford cast about then cupped his hands about his mouth.

"_SERGEANT! BREACH THE WALL!"_

The man looked up at him, then comprehension dawned. There was a scuffle, then the soldiers on the right hand side of the gate fell back, leaving a pair of fizzing dynamite sticks in their wake. There was a thunderous _crack-boom_ and the wall vanished in a cloud of red brick-dust. The shriek of the Tall-man was lost in the cacophony, but Bradford could make out the mangled corpse amidst the wreckage.

The creature's companion was at the window and turned at its fellows' distress. Which meant that it didn't see the soldier duck out of cover on the gantry within, crossbow levelled. A dart thudded into the creature and it went down with a _thunk_, then rolled off of the awning onto the ground below. Unconscious,

The green beast roarded in frustration and stood, firing from the hip. Bradford gawped as pullets pinged off the armour like spitballs. Sparks flew and the creature seemed to take stock, looking at the dents. It spread its arms and Bradford realised it was _laughing_. Then it lowered it's head and charged forwards. The soldiers scattered as it powered forward. One man was too slow and he found himself hefted up by a meaty hand and tossed aside. Bradford swore he heard the man's bones break as he hit a lamppost.

The beast turned and then _staggered_ as a loud blast sounded in the alley. Zhaoji strode forward, his weapon levelled. It was blunderbuss-looking thing, with a lever action similar to a Winchester. Bradford glanced at Shen, "One of your designs?"

The man shrugged, "I may have seen a design from a friend who knows a fellow in your Americas."

They watched as Zhaoji advanced, firing shell after shell into the beast, aiming for the face. Brown-green gore spattered back as the creature stumbled, but still it did not fall. There was a cry from one of the men who charged forwards. He shoved his rifle forwards, bayonet fixed. The blade slid off the armour, but the man charged again.

Another joined him and the creature bellowed as the blades sunk in. A third man ran up, blade thrust forth. The creature sagged, but raised its weapon and sent a blast clean into one soldier's face. The trooper reeled back and fell, head a burnt mess. The creature grabbed another man and there was a crack as it squeezed his neck. The soldier went limp and fell.

Another man gave a cry and leapt forward, he brought his rifle down and stabbed into the beasts neck. Another man joined and stabbed. Five men ringed the creature. It tired to raise its weapon again but another blast from Zhaojie sent the rifle skidding from its grip. They watched as the Chinaman approached.

Beast and man stared at one another. Then Zhaojie bowed slightly. The monster tilted its head, as if in acknowledgement. Then it sagged. There was the hiss of escaping gas and a puff of green emerged from its face mask, then it went still.

Bradford shook his head, then glanced at Shen, "One thing. How'd he get down there without us noticing?"

Shen shrugged, "The man is like a ghost. And just as annoying at times."

Below, the Sergeant rallied his remaining men. The few troops inside emerged, yelling the all clear, and the Irishmen were dragged out of hiding. All told, six men dead out of twenty, with two of Shen's six support also down. Two wounded, one likely gravely. But, three prisoners and a new sample for Moira to get her scalpels into. Bradford heaved a sigh and clenched his fist to stop it trembling. At this rate they'd run out of men before the enemy even bothered dispatching a new wave of tripods.

"Time to go home, boys," he muttered, and headed for the stairs.


	18. Chapter 18

The dreams were strange, fleeting, but oh so vivid. The first night in the hospital, with the sound of seagulls beyond the window, she had seen the tops of trees whizzing by. She had been flying, it felt like; but there had been a sense of fear, of certainty.

The trees had given way to ruined buildings - small figures moved between them, barely visible in the fading light, strange glowing contraptions being erected between the burnt out husks of what had once been houses. Then these too vanished behind.

A vast common and the signs of felled trees and cleared land. The ground pockmarked by ash and craters. Here there were serried ranks of silver coffins and barricades. Tripods moved with silent grace, smaller spidery machines moved huge pallets around. A strange, large disc sat on a large metallic pad as creatures carried cylindrical containers aboard. All was eerie, silent, lending a strange ethereal quality to the scene.

At the centre was a vast crater, within which had once rested a landing-cylinder. How she knew this she wasn't sure, but the sense of certainty pervaded all. Her view descended, bringing the crater into sharp relief. Within was now a set of ramps surrounding a strange ring, flanked by a pair of spheres. Within the ring glowed a swirling, purple kaleidoscope - it looked akin to the water atop a pond, after a child had tossed a careless stone into its depths.

There was a sense of _containment_ or restriction, as if she was being held. But she did not feel the urge to struggle. As she watched, one of the strange globes levitated from its cradle and floated towards here. Behind the singular lense set in it, something moved - an alien eye. But, for another moment, she saw herself reflected.

"_No, Nathanial! NO!"_

The images fled and she jolted awake, shrieking. Hands gripped her shoulders and there was a flurry of activity as white and blue clad figures flowed around here. There was the muffled sound of voices and the sudden sensation of a needle and the dark took her.

This time she did not dream.

* * *

Bradford was crossing Tower Bridge when he heard the foghorn sound. He glanced to the east and frowned - a pair of ships churning up the Thames towards them. The river had been mostly clear of traffic, the Martians having blockaded most of the canals, choking the arteries of commerce with the wider nation.

They were returning from another operation, another strike. The Fenians had revealed a little of the various undertakings between the invaders and the criminal underbelly of the Empire. But it smelled wrong still.

This ship was a freight-steamer, followed by what looked like an Ironclad. By this ironclad had large canvas coverings all over it, masking its shape. He frowned, then about turned and strode back, heading for the Hays Wharf. He kept pace along the water-front as the boat pulled into the wharf. The Ironclad pulled further along and settled against a dock. He could hear the cries of longshoremen and the navvies aboard as ropes were thrown and metal clanged against pontoons.

He entered the wharf and made his way around the cargo crates still being hauled out - fresh food being pushed out to the boroughs where they could, or coal being shifted to stockpiles in the railyard. He noticed a small crowd gathered near to where a gangplank was being extended, and spied a familiar face.

"Moira, what brings you out of your labs?"

The Swiss woman turned and gave him a slight smile, "Ah, Herr Bradford. I am unsure. I was summoned by our… benefactors. Ah, speaking of which."

A man approached from the wharf office - he wore coat-tails and black pressed trousers and carried a cane. His face was still a mystery to Bradford - he wore an opera mask made of varnished wood set in a simple harlequin smile on one side and frown on the other. But his voice was the same gravel-laced drawl. The man raised his cane and tapped the brim of his top hat.

"Captain, excellent. I had sent word, but it seems… unnecessary."

"Will Shen be joining us?"

"That will rather depend on… what happens next."

Bradford arched an eyebrow, "You have the advantage, sir. Keeping me in suspense?"

"Only when necessary. And I think this will be a welcome.. Distraction. Other parts, we are ourselves in the dark about."

They turned and looked up the gangplank as a figure appeared on the main deck. Bradford blinked, then grinned. Moira huffed in surprise.

Colonel Anderson descended the gangplank and offered a salute to Bradford, who hastily responded, "Permission to debark. This is your command, Captain."

"Permission readily granted, Major… or is it Colonel now? I can see some extra gold on there…" Anderson chuckled and dropped the salute and instead extended a hand. Bradford shook it and stared at the man, "Holy hells, you look like you've been through some stuff, Colonel."

"Here and there. Giving our guest a jolly good British welcome. And getting some sense knocked into me. Doctor Vahlen, a pleasure to see you again."

Anderson took her hand in his and bowed to kiss it. The Doctor blinked and blushed faintly, but she frowned, "Oh, so you have _gerugt_ \- deigned to grace us with your presence?"

Anderson straightened and gave her a sad smile, "Yes, well, fear makes fools of many a man, my good doctor. And experience is a harsh teacher. I am here to try to make amends. And I come bearing gifts."

He plucked his pistol from its holster and the trio, including the benefactor, all gasped.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, my good sir. An intact and functional alien weapon."

"How…?" Mouthed Vahlen.

"Turns out, you knock the buggers out, it seems their toys don't self-destruct," grinned Anderson, "Also, helps if they don't have friends about who retrieve the parts or can destroy them before you get to them as well. And that isn't all."

There was a groan of chain and wood as the wharf crane hefted something from the hold - the carcass of a tripod, laid upon a large pallet. Moira's eyes widened. Her jaw moved. Bradford found his voice first.

"Get. Shen." he grabbed a random worker and thrust him towards the exit, "NOW!"

Anderson glanced at him, "Who's _Shen_?"

* * *

An hour later, the group was ensconced in a converted room within the Tower, with a central table scattered with maps, cups of tea and a few meagre scraps of food. Anderson lounged in a chair having brought them up to speed. Shen sat opposite, transfixed by the weapon. The Benefactor leaned against the mantlepiece of the room whilst Bradford paced. Moira frowned at him.

"You are unsettling me, Herr Bradford. Is this really so fantastical?"

"We destroyed _five_ fighting machines?"

"And approximately a hundred plus of their servitor troops. Not as much salvage. And that isn't the _best_ part," Anderson grinned, "We also have a fully functional war machine…"

That caused Bradford to stumble and Shen to shoot him a frankly disbelieving look. Even the Benefactor coughed. The engineer was first to speak.

"Did you…. Bring it?"

Anderson sighed, "No, the navy locked it down and, frankly, can't blame them. Also, fitting it aboard the ship - didn't want to risk it. It's secure in Portsmouth, got a frankly obscene amount of Royal Society fellows pouring all over it. But, my friend, fear not. I brought something nearly as good," He hefted a satchel onto the table and opened it up. He produced several dossiers from it, which he slid over the table to Shen, "Got the base photographer, new chap, to get some shots. Also, a few of the engineers to do some measurements, document notes, get a few sketches as well. Some rudimentary analysis."

Moira leaned over, "Ogilvy will be enthralled with some of these."

Anderson exhaled, "He's alive then? Well, please do convey to him that his friend Wells still lives. And we have him to thank for a _lot_ of this."

There was some more back and forth on the current status of the war - an uneasy stalemate, with the Martians seeming to hold the initiative. Bradford chose that moment to interject.

"I don't wish to sound ungrateful or… out of turn, Colonel, but… you could have sent this along, remained on the coast?"

Anderson sipped his tea and smiled faintly, "Being shouted at by Admirals who can't find their… well, there's a lady present, so I will refrain from finishing that sentence."

The Benefactor stepped forwards, "I am intrigued, Colonel. I have spoken with General Marter and he commended to me that you are… predominantly the reason Portsmouth still stands."

Anderson offered a modest shrug, "I merely brought together elements still there."

"And that you may have also assaulted an Admiral."

The assembled company exchanged glances. Anderson spread his hands, "There was an emphatic exchange of opinions. I took command of a contingent of Royal Marines and pushed out a few interlopers from the city. And then the rest decided I was best placed to co-ordinate."

Bradford ran a hand through his hair, "Are you here to command?"

Anderson fixed him with a set gaze, "A broad question, _Captain._ Command what exactly?"

Bradford blinked and gestured around them, "Well, uh… I think that's fairly obvious, Colonel."

Anderson sighed, "I am somewhat Adrift… John. I am not a Garrison commander sort of chap. I am a man of planning and, I realise, of action. Marter mentioned pushing back and reclaiming London, but that seems… a tad presumptive. But, and here is my other point, I do not see the point of usurping a command if it is already underway. I do not wish to be that disruption."

The group exchanged glances and Bradford chuckled, "Frankly, Colonel, I feel pillar to post. As you say, you know your limits. I know mine. I'm a man who can run a Company, can do your tactics and collate. But running a long term strategy? I'll be honest… I never wanted this and I can see why you didn't either. I'm good at getting intel, analysing it."

Anderson glanced at the Benefactor then back at John, "I remember being a Captain. Wondering why the Brass seemed so inept. And for the most part, you have it right. But that's what leadership is - confidence bordering on arrogance. You just hope it's confidence born of competence!"

The Colonel stood and walked over to one of the maps pinned to a corkboard on the wall. Moira adjusted herself in her seat, "And which do you have?"

Anderson stared at the map, then spoke without turning, "The enemy has shown the ability to deploy assets remarkably swiftly. On the coast we have wireless transmission and communication lines to the Continent - the situation there is equally dire. Paris is under siege and the Prussians are holding ground. Russia is dark. America… we don't know. The invaders have capabilities beyond just walking metal monsters; their black smoke is a potent chemical weapon that has an unpleasant unique side effect. Three days after exposure, corpses re-animate and adopt a hostile demeanour towards any animate creature within proximity. Corpses removed from the proximity of impact sites don't seem to exhibit the same level of animate response but congeal and liquify rapidly, creating a potent toxin for soil and water in the vicinity. The enemy exhibit preternatural abilities of the mind, able to confuse and counter our organised strikes. _However_ with all that, we are able to hold and outmanoeuvre them. They underestimate elements of our military and our _people_."

He turned, face fixed in a grim expression. Moira blinked, "The dead?"

Anderson shrugged, "They also apparently feast on our blood. I swear, they're like a bad children's horror story brought to life. But we know their forces are ill equipped and beatable. They have technological superiority but have been delivered a resounding knock and, as such, appear to be adjusting their strategy. Captain, from what I understand and see from this map, you have been fighting a holding action, a reactive war. Frankly, we all have. Do you have a _proactive_ plan?"

Bradford frowned, "Well, that seems to say we've done nothing!"

Anderson shook his head, "No, Captain, I'm asking _what's next_ \- because so far, no one seems to know much beyond 'we win.' No one can tell me _how_ we win beyond vague ideas of a valiant charge and British pluck. I've seen too many men wasted on poorly planned charges or vainglorious thrusts at the enemy's so called _black heart_. Do you have a plan?"

His voice held no accusation - it was a genuine question. And Bradford found he was at a loss. The Colonel nodded slowly as the Captain sighed, "Not much of one… find out more about them was the main gist."

Anderson smiled, genuinely, "And it's a damn good start. But it's a method, not a strategy. We could win every battle against them and potentially still lose if we _don't_ understand them. They have chemical weapons, heat rays and a seemingly ever expanding menagerie of horrors. But what we need is a thread, a goal," He slapped his hand against the map, over the initial impact site at Horsell Common, "An objective. Not just engage the enemy where they come at _us_ but to work towards _them_. And to do that we need to be able to counter them enough so that we don't bleed ourselves dry in the attempt. We need to shift the battlefield to our advantage."

Shen frowned at the group, "You want to transform the entire British Army?"

Anderson shook his head, "No. I fear we have no time for that. But we can tip the balance to the war so the Army has a change. If we can neutralise the advantages of the enemy. Pick our methods of engagement to maximise our chances. I did that at Portsmouth, using their hubris. And I think we can do that with the tools here. Bradford, Vahlen, you asked me once before, and I failed to step up to the wickett. But the scales _have_ fallen from my eyes. I am afraid, but that fear is countered by certainty. If you feel I cannot command, I will not and will lend aid elsewhere. But you had faith before. Could you again?"

Moira and John exchanged glances. Then they smiled and looked at the Benefactor. The man straightened and nodded.

"Welcome back, _Commander_."


	19. Interlude - Vignettes

**Vignettes**

Breathing was the key - slow, steady breaths. The rifle level. The aim true. He remembered his mother's words - to ignore the discomfort, the cramp. Block out the sensation of cold, creeping cramp.

A movement would reveal you. And you didn;t want to be noticed until it was too late for your quarry.

In and out. Slow and steady. Eye trained on the same, narrow spot. And you picked a vantage before-hand - a place you knew they'd come, that was a thoroughfare for whatever it was you chose to hunt. With deer, it was a crazing spot. Rabbits, near their burrows. Wolves, a freshly laid haunch of meat.

For these things it was the same path through the forest he'd staked out for four days. The never diverged,

Slow and steady, he watched as a man in a suit, flanked by four of the grey-monkeys rounded the corner of the path, from behind the curve of the hill. Between this long gap in the thick trees, he had his one, perfect moment.

The rifle bucked slightly as he eased pressure on the trigger.

600 yards away, the man-that-was-not-a-man reeled backwards as its head exploded in a distant puff of blue-green gore and smoke. The grey-monkey's screeched and scattered. Another round hit home and one of the monsters tumbled away, sliding down the scree of the hill. Another shot and another fell.

He frowned as the creatures began firing in his direction - they were good at identifying the source of shots then. With a sigh, he shuffled backwards, down from his firing pint, sliding over leaf-litter and soil, safely obscured by the ridge of the hill he was on. The creature's were on the other side of a valley, so there was little chance of them gaining ground on him. But caution was still advisable.

Quickly, he slipped the rifle and it's extended telescopic sight into a leather sack, which he slung over his back, then picked up his Winchester repeater. From the small pack nearby he popped the Stetson onto his head, then lifted the satchel onto a shoulder. Nearby, his horse grazed and he quickly untied the reigns and clambered onto its back. A swift squeeze to its haunches and he set off at a trot down through the trees, heading back to the nearby fort. The Captain'd want to know how far along the varmints were getting, seeing as they were now pushing out of the more built up areas. And last reports they'd had, Boston was still fighting hard.

Thank the lord there'd still been no more sight of the damnable Tripods. They seemed content to just keep people penned in the cities

He glanced up and sighed as he saw, far in the distance, the rising smoke from the east., then spurred his horse into a near gallop as they hit the dirt track to the small outpost.

The light was fading, but he was damned if he wasn't going to fight for every inch the bastards tried to take.

Something moved in the underbrush nearby, a faint chattering noise. He glanced over, twitching. Something burst from the ground, all claws and orange eyes. The horse reared and screamed as something sliced it near in half. He hit the ground hard and swore as the wind was near knocked out of him. Through blurry eyes he saw something with far too many legs looming over the corpse of his horse. He didn't think he just fired, cranking the lever on his winchester, forcing the creature back. The chamber clicked empty and he yanked the revolver from his belt and emptied that until the creature stopped twitching.

The sound of hisses from the trees made his blood run cold. He looked over his shoulder - the fort was at the bottom of the hill, maybe another mile.

"Well damn. D'ya want to live forever?"

Unhooked a flare from his belt and lit it, raising it above his head. As it caught and launched, something exploded out of the soil next to him. Blood splattered the trees and birds took flight. Silence fell as the flare exploded, high in the sky. And, down in the valley, an alarm bell began to ring.

* * *

You learned to survive here, in the jungle. Or what was left of it. To avoid the whip of the Colonials and the claw of the Lion and the Leopard, you did what you had to. You either farmed rubber, waited their tables or just kept your head down. The forests of the Congo could hide much, for those who knew them, but were deadly in many other ways. The city was safe, if one knew how to act.

Or that was how it had been, until that silent killer had ignited most of Boma. The Europeans had fled, or tried to, but the ships in the port had been burned.

Strange creatures had captured and hauled away many. At first, Bakome had thought these people some sort of liberators, or at worst maybe some other European power looking to capture the port. Such things were not unheard of, as he had read, surreptitiously, the reports of South Africa (A name he still found strange and oddly presumptive)

But that hope had been dashed when a burly creature had snapped a poor fellow rubber-farmer over its knee, like an unwanted piece of kindling. And only because he had tried to approach!

Bakome had gathered his friends and they had fled the city into the jungle, along a mining path. The sky had burned brightly for three days as the city was laid to waste. The creatures had then begun to expand into the forests, sending what seemed to be _squid_, but silvery and ethereal, to drag people away.

So, he and other men had gathered together and formed a plan.

Out here, the Europeans had assumed them to be docile. The brutality of the farm overseers had kept many of them cowed. But they had planned and learned - gathering fertiliser and stashing pieces of contraband. Some of the families from the coast had kept their traditional keepsakes - old weapons and tools. And they had plans to free their fellows still trapped in the city.

So, a few days later, Bakome and a small group of men crept back to the city limits and laid their trap: several pots, filled with fertiliser and fuses, were set up at the edge of a warehouse. Another group of men were spreading oil pots around the town, ready for the fight back.

Many men carried the large bronze knives of their ancestors, whilst Bakome had a looted pistol and a tribal sword - it looked like a cross between an axe and a dagger, or a thin anchor. But it was sharp and hefty.

Now, they waited and watched as a patrol of the creatures made another check of the buildings.

The first step went well. Kabi, a young man from the plantations, led the charge, dropping from an overhanging balcony. He landed on a grey-creature and stabbed it in its bulbous head, roaring as he did so. Lufua and Motondo opened fire with their rifles, seized from dead Dutch sailors days ago, felling another two creatures.

The ground shook as the ambush had its intended effect - a Tripod lumbered towards their location, trying to draw a bead on them. The men disengaged and fled into buildings and alleyways. The machine lumbered towards them, firing the heat ray into the tree line. The trees exploded, raining brak and hot sap over the road and spreading firey sparks deeper into the jungle. Bakome had ordered the men to spread out but he could hear shrieks of pain as some unlucky souls were caught by the blast. He gritted his teeth but pressed on, following another group into the warren of streets - they knew there'd be losses. As long as they could save some, though.

The machine moved, searching for new targets. Bakome met with Kabi by the corner of a street. They watched the Tripod, now ahead of them, as they had looped around behind it. Nearby lay the fuse they had lain the night before. A flash of flint and it fizzed to life. The men held their breath as they counted down. There was silence.

And then the warehouse ahead exploded as oil and fertiliser erupted in a gigantic fireball. The men fell backwards as a wave of heat washed over them, the sonic boom of the explosion echoing across the town. Ahead, the tripod stumbled, reeling from the blast. One of its legs was twisted and mangled, and sparks flew from ruptures in its hood. The machine reared up and let out a bellowing hoot of alarm. **UUlllAAlAA**

The men cheered as the machine dragged itself backwards. A few dashed into the street and fired blindly at it. But their cheers turned to shouts of alarm as the metal monster turned and bathed the street in indiscriminate fire from the heat ray. Kiba and Bakome ducked back into the alley. Bakome nodded and pointed to the town centre.

"Go, free the others from the pens."

Kiba nodded and headed off, men in tow. Bakome turned and grimaced, then pulled the pistol from his belt. If Kiba and the others were to succeed, he needed to do more than just cripple the machine - they needed to draw more patrols this way.

He dashed across the street, ducking into another alleyway. He spotted a grey-creature, clearly responding to the distress of the walker. More were clambering over rooftops. He fired the pistol at it but missed, then dove down another dusty alleyway, hearing the shriek of alarm behind him, followed by the sounds of pursuit. Each turn and street, he fired at another collection of monsters, drawing them into a chase through the cluttered and burnt out wreckage of the town. Green blasts of heat flew over and around him as he ducked through the rubble. But he'd been a street child when the Europeans had broken his country - he'd learned to dodge pursuers and cut the purses of the colonisers and, as he;d been forced into more "respectable" work, he'd known the back ways of the city to help his family and friends.

Up until he lurched into a street and found himself face to face with the Tripod. The machine loomed above him, funnel focused directly on him. He turned and saw a motley collection of creatures scuttling over rubble and from wrecked buildings. Grey-monkeys, Not-Europeans and the hulking brutes that had easily broken the tin-soldiers of the Colonisers. Above, there was the his of heated air as three floating horrors came into view, their gurgling laughs audible over the burn of their engines.

Bakome looked at the pistol in his hand, then up at the Tripod. Movement behind it caught his eye and he saw Kiba, ushering a crowd of people, just visible, down an alleyway. The man looked at him, but Bakome shook his head.

He turned and pulled the blade from his belt and levelled it at the aliens behind him, then turned back to the machine. It seemed to be regarding him, weighing him. A glance around the street brought a smile to his face. He turned, fast, and fired. The shot missed the nearest hulking brute.

But it hit a flask of oil, the spark of the ricocheting bullet igniting the oil that was inside the sealed pot. Which in turn set light to the oil that covered the whole street.

The creatures around panicked as the world went up in flame. Bakome turned and sprinted forwards - the Tripod reared up, as if reflexively and time seemed to slow - the machine was trying to aim the funnel, the ray-of-death. He leapt forwards and slid across dry, dusty ground, underneath the metal machine, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted behind it, cutting down the alley where Kiba had been.

Behind him, another cache of explosives caught and an explosion rocked the stumbled across another street and found himself back at the edge of town. He practically threw himself into the trees, where arms grabbed him and pulled him into cover, back into the welcoming embrace of the jungle.

* * *

Vladislav Popov surveyed the open ground and sighed. The mist had come in and the frost had settled hard this morning, making the soil like concrete. Somewhere, across that open space, lay their enemy. An enemy that was currently laying siege across an unimaginable from and able to relocate faster than even their best cavalry.

He watched an entire infantry regiment obliterated by a single barrage from their artillery. And then, a day later, they watched those same men get back up and attack them.

Which was why pyres now burned all across the fields.

He hoped that a sudden push would clear the way, or at least buy the artillery time to destroy the enemy war machines.

He turned and approached his horse, held by a quavering young man. He looked more a boy, barely into his teens. Vladislav spared him a nod, "Ready, boy?"

"Yes, sir. For the Tsar!"

Vladislav grunted, doubtful the man would even care. He was not Cossack, not part of the _konvoi _who protected the Royal personage, but he had met the Tsar - a likeable man, but not one taken by individual discomfort of the people. He mounted and drew his sword. Alongside him, several men in cherkessk and fleece hats rode along the line, Infantry of the Imperial Russian Army checked their weapons and murmured.

He rode out in front of them, "Gentlemen. You know your roles, know what has been asked of you. We meet the foe, like we met the British in Crimea. We will force them back, we will make them pay in blood for insulting our land, for harming our people. We will not all survive this, but we men of _Russia_ do not back down. Are you going to let them take this land?"

"_No, Polkovnik!"_

"Are you going to let them win?"

"_NO, Polkovnik!"_

"Are you going to let them kill you?"

"_NO POLKOVNIK!"_

"Then to arms!"

He wheeled his horse around, and levelled his sword, spurring the horse into a gallop. Behind him, the cavalry began their charge, hoofbeats of a thousand horsemen shaking the ground as the plunged across the open field. The morning sunlight began to split the mist as as a sound rolled across the cold tundra. The infantry, breaking into rumbling song, keeping time as they began to march. Behind them, the Artillery spotters peered, waiting for the first signs.

As the sound of five thousand men, voices raised in song, washed across the ground, Vladislav caught his first glimpse of the foe.

Looming through the gloom was the brass-glint of a tripod. The machine lumbered forward, a titan amidst the ants. Heat washed through the air, splitting the mist and raising steam above the field. Screams pierced the air, followed by the acrid stench of burnt flesh. The song faltered, then rose again, interrupted by a _boom_ as the first shells were send forth. Ahead, the soil burst as they shots landed short. Some men and horses ahead went down, blown apart by friendly fire, or caught off guard by the craters. A Dozen more vanished in flame as the invisible ray swept across the ground.

Another machine, and another loomed out of the fog, lances of heat spearing the ground. Vlasilav screamed a warcry and spurred his horse onward, adrenaline pumping.

The song rose and a machine rocked as twelve shells blasted around it - some turning the soil at is feet to mud, others rocking it with airburst. One shell blasted against armour causing the machine to stumble. But still it stood.

One of the other machines settled into a sort of squat and plates slid back along its back. A flurry of rockets blasted up and into the air, soaring back over Vladislav's head, vanishing back into the mist behind him. He glanced back and saw fiery blossoms in the mist, and the song dipped faintly. The return fire of artillery also lessened.

He turned back, now only three hundred yards from the metal monsters.. And suddenly he was in a melee.

He crashed into a line of enemy infantry; men-that-were-not-men, scuttling little horrors and hulking beasts as tall as he was, even on horseback. The sight didn't phase him and he laid about him with his sabre, raising green and yellow spurts of gore as he force his horse onwards. Around him, the cavalry that had made the initial charge were sowing as much chaos as they could.

Above, the tripod strode, ignoring the people blow. Great metal feet crunched against the frozen soil, shaking the ground.

A green monster roared defiance and smashed the butt of its rifle against the flank of Vladislav's horse. The beast whinnied and fell, forcing him to roll clear. He rose and glared at the monster. Around him men and monster fought and fell. The beast in front of him stood tall and beat its chest. Vladislav raised his sword and he watched as the creature threw its rifle to one side. It drew a long, serrated knife from a belt and lunged forward.

Vladislav dodged to the side, then thrust, eliciting a spurt of yellow from a slice to the creature's face - he knew his blade would not pierce that armour.

The monster reeled away and chuckled. It spread its arms and roared, then came at him with an over head slice. He managed to get his blade up as the impact send a shockwave down his arm and he found himself forced to the ground. The beast was only holding the blade with one hand and its free arm came up and clamped around Vladislav's throat. He was lifted, bodily off of the ground and the creature gave another guttural chuckle.

The world began to go purple and black at the edges of his vision and he felt the sword drop from his hands as his grip faltered. For a moment his mind was suddenly utterly clear and he felt the prick of a blade being pressed to his stomach - the creature was going to gut him.

He acted reflexively, hand pulling the pistol from the holster at his belt. He leveled it just as the blade sank in and fired, point blank, into the creature's eye. It bellowed and he fell, painfully, to the ground.

The world swam and he looked around. Far off, the tripods continued to advance, yellow fires lost in the mist. One of the horrors reeled and burst in flames as the artillery finally struck true - but the other two continued on.

Around him, the infantry had managed to break through and were fighting tooth and nail. He couldn't tell if it was doing any good, as mud mingled with blood. He sank back against the carcass of his horse and looked down at his wound. He grimaced - a deep gut wound. Well, if he was to die….

One hand clamped over the wound, Vladislav rose to his feet.

"Men of the Motherland! To me! Let us make them bleed!"

Around him, infantry and cavalry wheeled and rallied to his cry. With a roar of defiance, they plunged forwards, to meet the foe as above, floating horrors descended and all around, grey-and green monsters closed in.


	20. Chapter 19

The sea air was supposed to reinvigorate the soul, or so the doctors said. But it just felt cold and distant, the surge of the waves over pebbles mingling with the screech of gulls. The blanket over her knees did little to ease the ever present chill, but her legs could have been on fire and she would have barely noticed.

She half turned her head at the sound of footsteps and a ghost of a smile graced her lips.

"Elizabeth, the nurse said we could find you here."

"Here" was the promenade of Gunwharf Quay, part of the extended naval fort around the docks. She'd asked her ever-present chaperone of a nurse for some privacy. Part of her felt a dark stab of resentment at the arrival of these two, but her heart softened against it. Bitterness was not a salve for the soul, not what she needed.

"Mr Wells. Mrs Wells. A pleasure. I was having a morning constitutional."

George glanced at his wife and gave an awkward nod, "Well, we felt you shouldn't be alone at such a troubling time. And we wanted to let you know, you are among friends, here. I can… imagine the pain. But..."

The man stumbled over his words, clearly ill experienced at the oratory needed. She sighed and adjusted her shawl, "Mr Wells, we have all suffered. I am trying not to dwell on the darkness. To avoid the same snare that my dear Nathaniel fell towards. Despair is not path of the lord. Only hope."

Carrie stepped forwards and knelt next to 'Beths wheelchair, "In which case, would you like us to pray with you?"

She was taken aback - she hadn't seen these two, kind though they were, as the pious sorts. Not that she was particularly pious herself - a _free spirit_ Nathaniel had called her, with a laugh in his voice. The earnest look upon carrie's face cracked her cold resolve and she managed a genuine smile, "That… would be kind."

George knelt on her other side and the three lapsed into silence, lost in their private missives to the lord, until Beth whispered a painful "Amen".

"Come now, let us get you some tea. You'll catch your death out here, and I don't care what those navy quacks say about bracing morning air. Smells far too like diesel and fish to be of any good."

Beth couldn't help but smile and relaxed as George wheeled her back towards the medical wing of the base.

Another familiar face waited outside, pacing fitfully. He still wore a bandage about his head and one arm in a half sling. He started at their approach and gave a sort of half nod, half bow to Elizabeth.

"Ma'am."

"Are you well, Sir?"

The man quirked an awkward grin, then ran his well-hand through his hair, "Well enough madame. And not a sir, I work for a livin'!"

Her lips quirked at the edges faintly, "Oh, I believe that. I hadn't the chance to thank you properly for our timely rescue, along with Mr Wells here."

The young soldier shook his head, "Nah, George here did the grunt-work. I just did all the fancy flourishes, you know? Made it look fancy. Um, I wanted to say, though, that, well, y'see.. I'm…"

She leaned forwards and took his hand in hers, "I know. And thank you. But, I would like to think that Nathaniel was at peace at the end."

Beth felt George adjust his footing, the boots scraping on cobbles. It was strange - the doctors had said her chances of walking were reduced, her muscles damaged and bones cracked from her experience. And yet there seemed to have been an adjustment, an acuteness delivered to her other senses. It was a peculiar feeling. She brushed the thoughts away and focused on the Artilleryman as he spoke.

"That's kind, ma'am. But I'm still sorry that we weren't quick enough. Wanted to say that, well, I hope I can make up the debt someday."

She gave him a rueful look, "THere is no debt. I am alive. And you, by all accounts, have given the leaders of our military perhaps the means for victory."

"Here's hoping, ma'am. I've been told I'm being sent back out while me arm's bruises heal up. Seems we're a bit short at the front, so even us busted up boys are being funneled back," he grinned at George, "Watch out mate, or they may press gang you onto a boat! Navy boys love a fancy lad."

George snorted, "I fear I'm a little on the senior side for this sort!"

The Artilleryman goggled then laughed, more a guffaw. He wiped a tear from his eye and nodded, "Well, as good I caught you too, George my-lad. And your fine lady, Mrs Wells. Wanted to get a chance to say goodbye, in case we don't run into one another again."

George extended a hand and the soldier took it in a firm grip, "It's been a pleasure, Lance Corporal Essex."

"Eh, you know you can call me David," Carrie moved around and gave the man a hug, which he returned after a moments shock, patting her gently on the back, "And you look after the daft bugger too, right?"

She pulled away and nodded, "And you look after yourself. Try to minimise the heroics?"

David posed for a moment, striking a classical stance, "What, and risk my good looks again?" he shook his head, then gave a shrug, "Best be off. Getting a steam boat to London. Re-forming some of the units there. And safer than linking back up overland."

They watched him go, satchel held in his good hand, heading for a steamer that was pulling into the naval docks. George sighed.

"A good man. Let's hope he sees the end of this horror."

"Him and all of us," murmured Elizabeth.

* * *

Anderson felt a strange sense of de ja vu. He'd only been in charge of the strange specialist unit for a few days now and he'd send a jolt through a fair few people. And now he was sat in an ornate meeting room near the Bank of England surrounded by a cast of characters very similar to those he'd met with nearly three weeks prior.

General Marter was there; the spokesman, accompanied by a couple of representatives, likely now-stranded ambassadors. Doctor Vahlen, Bradford and their new associate, Mr Shen, were also present. There were a couple of new faces - Colonels and some political sorts, as well as a few more aide de camps for various people, taking notes at the edges.

The spokesman had referred to this as a "review" of the project and they'd spent a tedious half hour running through necessary budget figures as well as a formal declaration of "secondment" from the British Army to this more _international_ body. Whilst he was technically now adjacent to the traditional chain of command, he knew he was still being judged by it. This role clearly carried some political barbs, too.

"Thus far, we have been impressed by the projects resilience and adaptability, a testament to the men under its auspices," drawled the speaker. Anderson nodded and leaned forwards,

"Captain Bradford is to be commended. He has initiated several directives that have borne fruit. And Chief Engineer Shen has also advanced several prototypes that we feel will be of great interest to our partners within the bulk of the armed forces," Some manila folders were slid across the table to the waiting Generals and Colonels. Doctor Vahlen pursed her lips and Anderson made a conciliatory gesture, "Doctor Vahlen has also made some fantastic strides in deciphering the invader's technical capabilities and linguistic puzzles."

One of the officers glanced up, "How does that assist us in shooting the bally things?"

Doctor Vahlen responded and Anderson leaned back, content to let her take the field on this one, "Understanding an opponent is the first step on the road to victory. We learn their ways, we learn their technology. We learn their technology, then we learn to counter it. Would you like more effective shells? Better bullets? This is the how."

The man blinked at the ferocity of her reply, the sharpness of her words and merely nodded. Colonel Anderson cleared his throat, "Thanks to Doctor Vahlen, we have produced kits that are able to treat, near instantly, minor wounds on the battlefield, maintaining soldier effectiveness in the midst of battle; Chief Engineer Shen has developed easily deployed armour kits that negate enemy weapons fire for a set series of impacts, again enabling further resistance. We are able to equip several London units in addition to the Project specific soldiers, And we have actually made some strides already in investigating the enemy weapon systems."

This brought a sense of hushed excitement. One of the politicians leaned forwards, an eager glint in his eyes, "Our own heat ray?"

Anderson regarded the man coolly, "Not yet, Minister. But we have an understanding of some of their systems, allowing us to more effectively manufacture our own weapons at a faster rate; better quality ammunition at higher calibres. Chief Engineer Shen here assures me we will likely have more insight if we can procure more Tripod parts in less-than-ruptured condition."

The meeting continued, concluding with a commitment for funding from the attending representatives. Anderson sagged as the various delegates traipsed out, leaving his small team. They exchanged glances and he rubbed his temples, then leaned back in his chair, "Moira, thanks for chipping in there. Bloody idiots sometimes can't understand strategic doctrine with a dictionary and all of Clausewitz's notes with a guide attached."

"_Ja_ they are a particularly tense group," she sighed and stood, pacing around the table, "Quite the task ahead, you seem to have set us?"

"What, winning? I see no viable alternative Doctor. And Bradford set you all up on that anyway."

"So," interjected Shen, "What _is_ the plan?"

Anderson rubbed the faint stubble of his chin, a reminder that he needed another shave, "Focus is key. There are three areas the enemy has the advantage - numbers, technology and firepower."

Bradford frowned, "That's two things, surely?"

Anderson shook his head, "Not quite. Firepower is an element of technology; but our opponents have vehicles as well, plus other tricks beyond us. Their numbers seem endless, whereas every loss we suffer is an experienced soldier gone and a hit to our morale. Our firepower is, likewise, tied to that number and then, in turn, limited by technology. We can only bring firepower to bear with sufficient numerical advantage, which in turn limits our effectiveness."

Shen frowned, "I don't quite follow."

Moira nodded slowly, "You wish to maximise our chances some way, negate their advantages by doing so?"

"Quite so. Reduce our reliance on numbers first off. That means a more effective soldier, more manoeuvrable."

"But more vulnerable to losses," that was Bradford, musing, his gaze lost in the middle distance as he thought.

Anderson nodded, "Yes, but like our skirmishers and long-bowmen from history, and your revolutionary irregulars, we can increase our force impact across a wider area."

Shen nodded slowly, "A smaller hammer, but directing more force to a point."

Anderson grinned, "That's the ticket! So, a smaller more mobile force; able to react quickly. Augment them with better firepower to match our opponent. And with this advancement we may be able to make gains in the technological race."

"But to upgrade an entire Army, or global armies, that's… a heck of a stretch," Bradford quirked a grin at the new Commander, "But something tells me that isn't your plan?"

"Indeed. We focus on the Project. We may be receiving funds, but it's a hiding to nothing if we try to command or advise on all fronts, solve _all_ the problems. In this, we are the lever, not the force."

Shen chuckled and the Doctor offer a smirk, "Colonel, I did not take you as a man who understood the classics of science."

"Hidden depths, my good Doctor. Now, I think we should retire for some tea. I have some assignments I would like you to consider as part of our new endeavours."

* * *

Hours later, Shen gathered his trusted crafters and engineers together. They huddled around a large chalkboard in one of the repurposed foundries under the railway arches. On the chalkboard was a fairly detailed sketch of the Martian heat-ray, whilst on a bench nearby sat three examples of the machine itself, each in various states of disrepair - impact damage, heat warping or simple explosive trauma.

Bits of weapon fragments, as well as a few intact scavenged examples of the enemy pistols, lay on other work benches, with identifier labels loosely associating the disparate parts.

"My boys, we've got a job ahead of us. You've been playing about with trinkets and toys so far. Improving the musketry of terrestrial powers. But now, my boys, we have the weapons of gods," his eyes twinkled, "Let us be like Ebo and take the fire from Zhuong. Get to it, my boys. And we shall rain flame anew."

* * *

In her lab, a requisitioned space within the London Bridge Hospital, Doctor Moira Vahlen bent over the corpse of the vast alien. Around her bustled more medical personnel, bringing a variety of tools to bear. Saws cut through the carapace armour of the beast and sparks flew as metal fell away, revealing scarred and grafted flesh beneath. Vahlen plucked a scalpel from a tray and leaned in. She worked through muscle and tight-knit bone, then peeled away skin from skull and plucked glands and neurons from exposed tissues.

"Weighing in at over 275 kilograms, the majority of which is simply muscle and bone, this creature appears well suited for the rigors of front-line combat. The specimen's natural ability to manage adrenaline levels could prove useful if we can study it further."

Her voice held a detached note as an aide scribbled furiously nearby. A photographer was even present for this one, taking shots of the corpse and the extracted remains. Vahlen continued,

"This is the most physically aggressive specimen we've discovered so far, which the troops fondly refer to as the "Muton." I can only assume there's a colorful backstory for such a designation. Standing well over two meters tall, the ratio of this subject's lean muscle to the rest of its body mass is staggering. Its bones are highly durable yet very light in weight, and it seems to lack extramuscular fatty tissue of any kind. On removal of the main elements of the being's external armour, I note a variety of ritualistic markings and unusual tattoos,"

Vahlen paused and peered at the tracks, tracing several with a finger,

"This could imply some sort of tribal structure among the Muton species, however I will need additional specimens before this can be confirmed. Whilst we are flush with Tall-men and Insectoid corpses, this is our sole intact specimen so far of a Muton. Whether this is a leadership figure is unknown, but it seems more of a combat focused variant of the invaders..On further examination also noticed a number of distinct similarities between the physical facial features of the Muton and the creatures we have designated "Rocketeers" or "Floaters". They exhibit a similar bone structure and cranial shape, implying a potential relationship."

Vahlen dry washed her hands for a moment. An aide approached and she stepped back, allowing the man to extract some of the finer tissues as she pondered.

"However, whilst the Rocketeers exhibit signs of forced augmentation by alien means, the Muton displays a more natural structure, albeit exaggerated to extremes. Perhaps these two are related in some capacity, with weaker specimens being forcibly… enhanced into the "rocketeers"? This is, of course, pure speculation until we obtain some form of medical information from the invaders directly to corroborate these findings."

She watched as the aides prodded and poked, taking note of both the structure of the armour as well as the placement of thicker skin and the vital organs.

"Following completion of this autopsy, I will be issuing a field guide, indicating the most effective targeting to bring down any future encounters. A live specimen would be preferable, but preserving human life must take priority. This should allow the men to conserve ammunition and make for more effective elimination of the hostile creatures."

She approached another metal table, this one holding two mutilated "Rocketeers", "Further to the autopsy of the Muton, we are revisiting the prior examinations of the Rocketeer or Floater sub-species. As frightening and vicious as this species is on the battlefield, it is hard not to feel some sympathy for them on the dissection table. The specimen has been subjected to extensive… well, what I can only call biological and mechanical medical modifications, some of which _must have been_ undoubtedly quite painful and intrusive. The combination of living tissue and mechanical components gives the creature the look of a cruel, half-finished experiment. Most of the subject's internal organs have been replaced with a mechanical life support system that mimics their original functionality. Much as we would grant a prosthetic to an amputee, the invaders have done something far more despicable and beyond our current grasp of science."

She suppressed a shudder as she looked over the preserved remains. Whilst the main body was dead, metal fingers _still_ clasped and unclasped. A motor function still going in death, powered by whatever eldritch science fuelled these abominations.

"We have noted that there are similar wire-mesh constructs within the cranial cavity, similar to those of the _Insectoid_ creatures. However, these seem to be connected to the propulsion system of the beasts and, I would surmise, are some form of enhancement for evasion. Reports from the field indicate these creatures possess unnerving agility and a propensity to dodge incoming fire from even dedicated marksmen, with unexpected shots the most likely to fell them. The power packs and systems are, currently, beyond us. But with sufficient specimens I aim to replicate some of the functionality of these creatures, if we can understand the calculation machinery involved."

Her autopsy finished, Vahlen exited, pulling rubber gloves from her slender hands. Beyond the doors she found Anderson, who had been watching through a viewing window. He bowed slightly, "Doctor Vahlen. I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

She frowned but shook her head, "Not at all, Commander. It would be rude of me to dismiss you after I went to such… _anstrengung_ to bring you here."

"The long path, perhaps, though?"

She grimaced, "I was… disappointed, I will admit."

"I understand. But… I am sure, now you see what is happening, you can understand my demons at the time."

"And you can understand the necessity of why we wanted you."

He met her gaze and shrugged, "But you did not know they were coming….. Did you?"

She threw her head back and let out a frustrated hiss, "Of course not! We thought it was a coincidence. I have told you this."

Anderson mused for a moment and nodded, "That seems fair. Even Ogilvy concurs with that. Just checking, madame."

She glared at him, "Have you come here just to vex me, Commander?"

"No, no. More, I am interested in what your dalliances with the dead can help us with."

On more professional ground, her demeanor changed. She turned back to look through the window into the mortuary, "Currently? It gives us some insight into these creatures; the symbiotic relationships. And a better understanding of how to kill them," she spared him a sideways glance, "Their science is still in advance of ours, so replication of their methods is… difficult."

Anderson plucked a shard of metal from his pocket and handed it to her, "Are you also able to do some analysis on this?"

She stared at it, "Is this…?"

"Material from the fighting machines. Some scavenged from the site in Portsmouth which we brought in addition to the chassis of the thing itself. Shen can only work with a sample once and I'd rather he didn't melt down the entire stock and leave us with just shiny slag. We have a couple of tonnes of the stuff, so be careful. I've got politicians and naval chaps who want to turn it into canon barrels and ironclad armour."

She shot him an askance look, "I think we can find a better use."

"I thought as much. Also, are you free for dinner later?"

She blinked, then flushed, "Well, you can hardly expect me to… I will need time to investigate the material… I will not have a report ready in just a…"

Anderson chuckled, "Merely a suggestion. I know you have all been working hard. I thought you might deserve a break. As well asa chance to berate me some more. I was going to ask the others along, so you could all have a fair crack."

For a moment Moira's face was a flood of conflicting she shook her head, "I will focus on this. Maybe… another time commander. Please give my best to Shen and _Captain_ Bradford."

Anderson folded his hands behind his back and nodded slowly. He gave her a faint smiled, "Very well. Good night, Doctor. Please do remember to get _some_ rest at some point."

She watched him go, his boots clicking on the tiles as he headed for the stairs and a frown crossed her face as her mind tried to get back on track. She clutched the metal shard in one hand as ideas swirled in her head, then she smoothed the rubber apron at her front unconsciously and turned with a click of her tongue, heading towards another lab, shouting for her assistants.

* * *

/COMMAND UPLINK ESTABLISHED/

/Query - SEND/

WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt

CLARIFY

CLARIFY

CLARIFY

/ORBITAL STABILISATION ACHIEVED. GEOSYNCHRONOUS POSITION MAINTAINED/

\- WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt

\- WARMIND BETA (SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt

/PRIORITY DEPLOYMENT LIST FROM /**SELF**/ ATTACHED/

/SEND/

\- WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt

\- WARMIND BETA (SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE) Acknowledging receipt

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

\- WARMIND ALPHA (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE)

Confirm Deployment schedule of **AVIATION**

/CONFIRM/

/CARRIER HAS ARRIVED/


	21. Chapter 20

Anderson leaned on the table and sifted through the stacks of reports, photographs and telegrams that constituted the "summary" of the war effort. His eyes flicked across corroborations, movements, historical movements. There was also a pile of folders that was the sum total of knowledge of prior incidents - anything relating to the invaders from before the actual landing of the cylinders - it was sparse but it was there.

He looked up as Bradford entered, another stack of documents in his hands. The man looked a little less haggard now and Anderson offered him a nod, "More good news, Captain?"

"Just strange, sir. Martians haven't so much as peeped since you sent them back with their nose in a sling. They've dug in. Only got minor guerilla movement in the outlying parts of the city… and collaborators of course."

Anderson twitched and shook his head, "Bloody traitors."

Bradford winced, "Eh, only a hundred years ago, you'd be saying that about us."

Anderson rolled his shoulders and sighed, "Geography and time mellow the memory somewhat, Bradford. The revolutionaries in Ireland are a closer fear. That said we haven't been the best landlords… but this is beyond the burning of the establishment - this is the selling out of ones fellow man. Have the prisoners said much?"

"Well, the wounded one gave us a little - his boss, not so much. Got some safe houses they're using, some old warehouses that the Martians have secured. Did a cursory sweep, subtle-like, with Shen's boys and girls. Nothing in any of them… except…"

Here he placed a photograph from his pile onto the table. It showed a construction site - a dig, more than an actual building to Anderson's eyes.

"Looks like one of the sites for the Underground extension."

"That it is. And we saw a fair number of Tall-men heading in and out with some revolutionaries. And there's something else…"

He pulled out a sketch and handed it across. Anderson frowned, "They have a crest?"

Bradford nodded, "Look familiar?"

Anderson studied the decal, a five sided shield with an "X" across it and shook his head, "Should it?"

"Reminds me of one of the military cap badges I saw. Damned if I can remember where. But seems our anarchists are a little more unified."

Anderson nodded, "Well, this does present us with an opportunity to gain some actionable intelligence and perhaps more samples. Ready a platoon. We need firesupport, some engineers and heavy weapons, in case there's any more of those 'Muton' beasts you've mentioned."

Bradford cocked his head to one side and frowned, "Engineers, sir?"

"It's an underground tunnel, Captain. Having some chaps who know how to hold it up or bring it down in short order will likely be rather useful. Keep most of the platoon surface side to round up stragglers; enlist local police to ensure we've identified all exits - in case they can pop out of a cellar or something. Don't want the chaps getting stacked up in there and always a good idea to keep a reserve."

"Understood sir. Will you be briefing them?"

Anderson nodded, "Two hours. I need to revisit Shen. Said he had something for me."

* * *

Shen's workshops were a strange sight. In a little over a week, the Chinese crime boss had transformed the empty under arches to a warren of stores and forges. Smoke billowed up between gaps in the makeshift sheds and heat rolled out of side rooms where makeshift troughs of molten metal were being forged into barrels and body-armour.

Anderson made his way carefully through it all, into a large warehouse at the centre of the maze. He froze as he entered and stared. One of the Tripod heat-rays had been setup in a sort of gantry system, hooked up to a glowing column. There was the crackle of static in the air and then a flash, followed by the smell of ozone. Steam rose off of the ray-gun and men dash forwards, throwing buckets of sand over it.

Anderson saw Shen shaking his head, next to a large chalkboard. Ogilvy was stood next to him, having been dragooned into service by Moira. Apparently the man had arrived in London a while before Anderson and been picked up damn near immediately - the Spokesman's people were efficient to say the least.

His old friend noticed him and beckoned him over, "Ah, Bill! As you can see, we haven't quite cracked it. Barely get any output… well, we get it, but the heat just goes everywhere except where we aim."

"Twenty five lenses, lost!" grumbled Shen, "The glassblowers can barely keep up. Shame all of the original focusing devices were shattered. Would help to know the material they use as glass seems to just shatter."

Anderson gestured at the columns, "And those?"

Shen shuddered, "Some of the devices you brought along, crated up. Best we can tell, some sort of self contained power unit. No coal, no steam components, no magnetic elements. Not even static. Our own steam generator, well, it can't power the devices even to a slight amount. It is… an enigma."

Anderson shook his head, "So, even if we do crack these things, we likely can't use them consistently?"

"For now. Give Moira time. That woman seems to relish the challenge," Shen grinned and clicked his tongue, "BUT! We have made some progress on other matters."

He led Anderson over to another part of the warehouse where two men were running some checks on a strange set of contraptions. One was a huge backpack - it looked like a frame of iron bars around a large canister. A glowing energy unit sat at the base of it all. The backpack was connected to a huge device that looked like a hose crossed with a maxim gun. Anderson glanced nervously at Shen, "And that is…?"

"Well, you said you wanted to maximise output per soldier. This is… well it is currently a crude prototype. I was partly inspired by some old Arabic designs for flamethrowers - pressuring things via bellows and so on. Except we far exceed that now with our valves and funnels."

"A… flame thrower?"

Shen grinned again, "No! Something more effective!" He gestured to the two men. One of them hefted the nozzle-gun and aimed at a distant target, maybe thirty yards away, made up of stacked metal and wood pallets. The second technician turned a few valves and the backpack shook. Then the main gunner pulled the trigger.

There was the sound of air being shredded and a large metal rod slammed into the distant target, exploding metal and wood into splinters. The backpack hissed as steam hissed out, then subsided. Anderson blinked, "What the devil?"

"The enemy use a form of pressurised gas in their weaponry, which they superheat via some form of focusing array. However, we can't replicate the gas nor the focusing methods just yet. _But_ I have been able to use their method for pressuring the gas and using _that_ as a propellant for a projectile. The weapon can pierce five inches of metal, using nothing but a sharpened rod of steel. I may be able to scale it up."

"An anti-armour weapon?"

"And at this level, an anti-Muton weapon. There are… issues. The weapon required three minutes to re-pressurise and we need to use the enemy small power packs to generate the requisite heat. As well as their gas pressure components. These are expensive to make, material wise. I have two so far. Two to three man crew to use the damn thing, until I can find out how we can improve our men in some way, or find a similar solution to the martians."

"Mounted… weaponry?" Anderson mused and nodded, "I can see it. Well this is excellent progress. I would like to have one on our next excursion. A field test."

Shen nodded, "Good idea."

Ogilvy leaned in, "I've something else to add. Have you noticed the meteorological phenomena?"

Anderson arched an eyebrow, "It's a bit cloudy you mean?"

"In high summer? With thunderheads against the usual wind direction? We've not seen the sky for two days."

"Something they're doing to the air perhaps?"

"Not sure, but worth considering old boy. Also, wanted to have a chat about that array Wells found."

Shen waved them away and Anderson followed the astronomer into a smaller building between the various yards and railway sidings. A few more technicians bustled around in here, running copper cables between a set of wind-up generators and the strange pylon that Wells had captured.

"So, what the devil is it?"

"We think it's a communication system."

"Oh? Wireless?"

"Something like that. Apparently it houses a ghost," The Colonel stared at him and Ogilvy chuckled, "That or some sort of… cinemagraphic projection. Did you read the reports you brought back?"

"The debrief was fairly extensive, a good twenty captives and their statements… not made my way through all of it. All I got was that they used something to talk to their masters…" mused the Colonel.

"Well, seem this is it. Unfortunately it was badly damaged during the, ah, _fracas_ between our mutual acquaintance and Tripod."

"Still finding that a wonder, to be honest."

"I too, old boy. But you see that crystal atop it? Cracked rather badly. Also, some components within are melted. There's what look like stone plates, as well as polymers, inlaid with metal strips… we think to carry current."

"I thought you were an astronomer, Ogilvy."

"That is a calling. Spent eight years working developing better electrolysis methods in Slough. I know my way around a wiring diagram and a laboratory, Bill."

Anderson chuckled, "The fruits of a life well spent. I can just fire a rifle rather well."

"Well, a fine pair then! So, we were going to run a current through it, see what it does."

"Is that… wise? We know the tripods tend to explode violently and they seem to have similar… components." a few of the nearby technicians paused in their work and exchanged worried glances. Ogilvy gave Anderson a deadpan look.

"My dear fellow, we've checked it. None of the components are in any way explosive under any circumstances. At worst the thing will be a very pretty light show."

The pair moved back and, despite Ogilvy's confidence, Anderson found they were standing behind what looked like a rather large shield of metal. He smirked at his friend as the scientist gestured for his team to continue.

There was the whine of electricity building as the generators kicked into gear and batteries were clipped into the circuit. The air tingled and Anderson felt his teeth go cold. Lightning jumped from the crystal atop the pylon and blasted around the room, lancing towards anything metal. There was a shower of sparks and a figure appeared in the middle of the room. It flickered and staggered, then raised a weapon and fired.

There was a scream as a technician went down, clutching his arm. Others shouted and ran for cover as the strange, glowing, _golden_ being took shot after shot, firing wildly.

Anderson cursed and pulled his pistol, then ducked out from behind cover. He pulled back as the creature twisted and fired. It's range of movement was unnatural, torso snapping around like it was on an axis. The gun fired in bursts of six, splashing green energy all over. Anderson took a chance and leaned out again, firing a couple of shots in quick succession.

The creature reeled backwards, then stumbled over a wire. Anderson took the opportunity and stepped out from behind the metal shield and planted three more shots into the creature. They sparked off of the strange, bone-like armour, seeming to only aggravate the thing.

He saw it recover and raise its weapon. The movement drew his attention to the blue glow at its centre. Without thinking, Anderson fired his last round, plugging the glow with a straight shot.

The being froze then _shattered_, the weapon in its hand fracturing as if it too were made of glass.

"Turn it off, turn it off!" came Ogilvy's shout and a tech sprinted across the room, yanking down on a lever. The circuit broke and the arcing electricity sputtered out, the sparks fading from the erupting machine. The air stank of burned flesh and burnt polymer. Anderson turned and regard his friend.

"I can safely say that did not go as expected."

* * *

Moira Vahlen stood peering at the burnt out machine, then turned and glared at Ogilvy, "_Wunderbar_. A functional device reduced to an oversized paperweight. _Warum?_"

Anderson sat on crate nearby, juggling a crystal in his hand. It was all that remained of the strange creature, cracked by his pistol shot. Strangely, the machine retained its own crystal, but that was now covered in even more spider-webbed cracks. He glanced up and watched as Ogilvy weather the assault from the Head scientist.

"My apologies, madame… _Doctor_. We had the safeties in place, various compounds attached to measure for chemical analysis, observers."

"And half of it is burned out and we have two _dead_ technicians."

Ogilvy bridled slightly, "You think I don't know that? I cannot account for every possible action! We now _know_ the enemy has the ability to MANIFEST entities at will! Proven. It was not the aim of the experiment, but it is a discovery. I am sorry, Doctor, I feel the shame off loss. But at least we _know_ something."

Vahlen glared at him, "And we _lost_ a valuable asset."

Anderson stood and huffed, "I authorised the experiment Doctor, which was done under the auspice that we test all the assets recovered. One thing we now know, " he looked between the pair, "Armed guards for any laboratory dealing with non inert samples. We know they can bring the dead back to a point. And now we know they can, via some queer scientific or ephemeral means, magic combatants from their devices. Doctor Vahlen, I will concur with Professor Ogilvy - I'm not sure how he could feasibly have carried this out any other way. Unless you wished for him to dismantle the device?"

The Doctor exhaled and gave Anderson a look, "I feel this is a waste of assets… but I… suppose I understand the point. It feels like a waste."

Ogilvy clasped his hands, "And I am sorry, Doctor. I had gone over your checklist and thought we had everything in the clear."

Moira waved a hand. She suddenly looked distracted, noticing the crystal in Anderson's hand, "Another...crystal?"

"Quite wrecked I'm afraid."

"Well… I would be grateful if you can seize another of these devices. And maybe a live example of the creature."

Anderson nodded curtly and handed the crystal across, "Maybe then you'll join us all for dinner, Doctor?"

She looked him up and down, then huffed, "Perhaps. That may take a live Tripod, of course," and she walked out of the ruined lab. Ogilvy glanced, perplexed, at his friend.

"Are you… courting?"

Anderson blinked and shook his head, "Don't be absurd. Professional back and forth, helps morale. And all that."

"Ah. Of course. And giving her a lovely example of carbonised mineral means nothing…"

Ogilvy grinned and held up his hands, walking to join his technicians. Anderson grunted, shook his head, then left.

* * *

The platoon stood at ease, thirty men in carried the usual Martini-Henry rifles - this was the perimeter detail. Five had the Winchester lever rifles, as they were the "first in" team. There was a single marksman with the team, the butt of his long Afghan rifle resting on the parade cobbles. Two more carried large bore rifles, "recovered" from a nearby collection. They were designed for taking down Elephants - and now, hopefully, Mutons.

The three engineers carried shotguns and pistols, lighter to counter the explosives they carried in their packs.

The last four men were a bit more varied - Zhaojie stood with Maxim gun resting on his shoulder. Anderson decided not to ask "Mr Zhang" where or how he'd procured one. Nor how he seemed happy to carry the damn thing by himself. He had a…. Colleague; a wiry young woman who carried one of Shen's crossbows.

The other two men carried the prototype "Pneumatic" gun, one hefting the back-pack and pair of pistols for self defence. The gunner had the main nozzle primed. The loading seemed akin to that of a bolt action weapon - allowing the gunner to insert a new steel rod from the bandoleer or satchel he carried.

It was certainly the most unique assortment of troops he'd ever had to brief.

"Gentlemen… and lady. It has come to our attention that we have unwelcome guests in our city. As such, we will be deploying to counter rebel and invader elements. Within Baker Street, at a construction site. Sergeant Hackett has already briefed you on the initial details of your tasks - the Perimeter team will establish a cordon, focused inward. Local constabulary and militia, as well as attached British Army forces will secure the external perimeter. The secondary team will enter the site and clear it of hostile elements."

He paced in front of the gathered troops. Bradford stepped forwards, "The primary objective is to clear the area of hostile forces. Secondary is the capture of live specimens. Third, the seizure of intelligence - documentation, equipment and supplies."

Anderson nodded, "Extraction will be once the site is secured, or if resistance is deemed too fierce. If hostile elements are numerous and resistant, the objective will be to seal the location, disrupting the enemy plans and movement. This will be a field test of our capability to assault an enemy held position, rather than just reacting to their attacks. This will set a new mark against which the country, indeed the world can measure success. Godspeed, all."

The troops came to attention, even the irregulars, then turned to the right and marched off, to be briefed in-detail by their corporals. This was the "overarching" speech, the setting of the scene. But it was important, a primer as it were. Bradford crossed over and watched the troops load up into wagons, "Reckon it'll be ok?"

Anderson sighed, "Sending them into the belly of the beast. But there'll be worse by the time this war is through, you can be damn sure."

Droplets of rain began to spatter and the Colonel glared up. Bradford shuddered, "Damn fine weather for it too."

Anderson continued glaring up at the clouds, his expression growing thoughtful "Isn't it just….?"


	22. Chapter 21

The city was strangely silent, muffled by the drone of rain. Sergeant Hackett glanced around the Platoon, watching them go through their final checks as rain drummed against the cobblestones. He chewed the tobacco in his mouth a moment longer, shooting another glance at the sky, then spat the rancid black sludge onto the pavement, where it sloshed down the guttering into a drain.

"Bloody weird, summer showers like this. Feels like ruddy autumn."

Zhaojie lounged against a wall nearby and nodded slowly, "The air feels wrong."

"You ain't bloody wrong, Chinaman."

The big fellow chuckled and shrugged, "I feel the winds changing. Something feels wrong with all this."

"As if having bloody walking ghouls and hissing dandies shooting burning snot at us wasn't weird," grumbled Hackett. Zhaojie didn't answer, instead looking back over his weapons. The man was practically a walking armoury - maxim gun, sidearm, crossbow, a knife or five. His slight companion was lightly armed, but she seemed just as dangerous, her eyes cold and hair tied back into a tight bun.

They were huddled in an alleyway near the construction site, sheltering from the rain. The wagons had deposited them here, down a back-street. The cordon teams were quietly setting up, under the guise of redirecting the various flows of listless citizens, supply wagons and refugees. They were scant miles from "the front" here, with Ealing being a near active warzone. The press of people was strong on the main thoroughfares, making this an excellent place for the enemy to establish a base - masked by the flow of people, easy to slip in and out of.

He gave a signal and the platoon filed out, fanning across the alley and into the street that ran alongside the site - an opencast pit, flanked by half constructed buildings. The gate was lightly chain, made short work of by a set of iron boltcutters.

The perimeter troops moved into overwatch positions, cracking open the doors of buildings opposite, pushing their way in and up floors to find suitable vantage points. Hackett hung back and signalled to Zhaojie, "Alright mate, you wanted the lead, you got it. I'll hang back, send in the reserve when you shout. Our runners say there's a works ramp down but it looks like it gets narrow. Remember, you see it goes too far, you hold, we get more lads in. Secure the entrance, make life hard and then make a call on whether to blow the bugger."

Zhaojie nodded and grinned, "You'll miss all the fun, Sergeant."

"Still closer to it'n a Rupert'd be."

"Strange that, is it not?"

"Heh, those of us who do and die, mate. Crack on."

The men with Winchesters went first, fanning out across the site, taking up position and advancing slowly. The engineers came next, with the heavy team and sniper moving to flank the entrance.

Nothing moved and Zhaojie narrowed his eyes. Not even a sentry; no workers; it felt wrong.

The team moved in, down the earth ramp, past the iron struts that were the start of a foundation block, into the excavation itself. Down here the tunnel was lit by gas lamps and crude electrical bulbs strung out. Zhaojie noted that the cables didn't come _out_ of the tunnel, which meant the power source was further in.

"No smoke… what are they using? Hand cranks?" he mused.

They must have gone down a good fifty feet before they reached the wider expanse of the excavation, adjacent or below the Bakerloo line itself. They had been moving forward slowly, inch by inch, playing a cautious advance, down the curving tunnel, when the ambush was sprung.

The first soldier got caught on the arm as he descended a half finished stairway, open on one side to a more expansive room. He went down with a curse and yanked the steaming armour off his forearm, tossing it away, then scrambled into cover behind a pillar.

The rest of the forward team dove forwards, scrambling over the open ground of the tunnel and ducking behind stacked crates and carts carrying spoil. Green bolts flashed across the dark space, their hissing passage mingling with the chitters of the enemy and the odd shout of a human. Bullets mingled with the alien fire as more mundane firearms added to the suppressive barrage.

Zhaojie growled from the top of the stairway,and unslung the Maxim gun. His arms bulged as he descended the stairway, one hand gripping a makeshift sling that held the weapon up. His other hand depressed the trigger. Shen had modified it slightly, allowing him to wield the water-cooled monster of a weapon himself. His companion Jiayi, carried the satchel from which draped the belt of ammunition.

The hail of bullets bought his forward team time as yells of surprise and shrieks of aliens caught in the open stemmed the initial avalanche of fire. Sparks flew on the other side of the cave and something shattered. Flames caught spreading over the floor as oil ignited, spilled from a lamp or a barrel. The shouts of surprise turned to screams and Zhaojie grinned ferally.

"Forward! By the numbers! Present!"

The team fired methodically, as he swept the gun back again, then released the trigger. He could hear the water bubbling in the barrel casing, boiling off the excess heat. He heard the soft footfalls of the sniper as he took position against the edge of the stairs, heard the loud retort of the rifle, followed by a very human howl of pain.

Silence descended as the forward tema paused to held up a hand and gestured forwards. The team moved forwards, allowing the rest of the heavy-team in, as well as the engineers.

"Secure the room. Check for exits. Engineers, first set of charges here, set them up and be ready. We must be careful _not_ to damage the train line above if we can avoid it."

The men set to it and he moved to survey the damage. The oil fire was burning itself out, but he could make out three charred bodies - one human, one grey, one tall-man. There were at least five more dead greys, two humans and a second tall-man. No Mutons. Though he'd like have noticed that once they entered the room.

"Two more exits sir. One goes down, the other… reckon it's a dead end or an exit, mostly spoil carts," reported one of the soldiers. Zhaojie nodded and gestured to the sniper.

"Check and be careful. You, go with him. If it's an exit, secure it and flag to the perimeter," the pair of engineers he nodded towards, "You stay here, ensure these are set and ready. You, with me, bring the rest of the explosives."

Zhaojie shouldered the Maxim gun and frowned. He squared his shoulders and led his men deeper.

* * *

Moira toyed with the crystal and mused. She knew Ogilvy had already been over the emitter… device… telegram machine the beasts ahd used and, despite her irritation, she couldn't fault what the man had done. He'd just been by her lab to apologise again, profusely. Likely terrified for his job - a thing suddenly in stark need in days of war.

She'd sent him on his way with a new task - replicate the machine, if at all possible, with terrestrial means. There would be underlying functions and perhaps some elements of its function that would elude them, but if they could trace its form, then they would at least have an inkling of what was missing.

If it was a physical thing, of course….

She placed the shard under a microscope and checked it again. Even cracked, there was a definite _pattern_ within the latticework - not the random shards within a diamond, or the maelstrom of clustered shapes within sand.

No, this was structured, ordered, down to a nigh impossible level. But it was cracked, damaged, and that clearly impaired it in some way.

With a sigh, she set it aside - they'd have to seize and intact one. But _how_? The poison tipped arrows wouldn't hard an inorganic… she blinked and pulled the crystal back.

Yes it was crystal. But the structures resembled… cells? Was that possible?

An hour later, she'd pulled samples of the other beasts, checking them under the microscope. There were similarities, mainly in the cerebral tissues - a level of hegemonic uniformity not seen in terrestrial animals. The "Insectoids" were the ones with the greatest level of similarity; practically identical down to individual tissue shapes, brain structure, even bone density.

Like someone had _copied_ them in some manner.

Even the brains, with metallic wires interlacing the same segments, were identically shaped.

She had her assistants run checks on the Tall-men corpses, as well as the "floaters". She'd need more Mutons to confirm any further connections. But that was more to see a trend. What she _had_ identified was a similarity in structure of the crystal to the _brains_ of the Sectoids.

And that was just… strange. Why have an artificial structure of a thinking creature?

She recalled the briefing notes from Mr Wells and The Colonel. A manifesting being. A thing that was corporeal.

That shared a brain structure with one of the aliens, perhaps? So was that because it _was_ like the aliens… or it had to overlay to an alien elsewhere?

An _avatar_ of something, somewhere else perhaps? A projection?

And it worked both ways.

She was walking out of the lab and was across the bridge, pushing through the sparse crowds of milling civilians and soldiers. She practically barged into the headquarters room in the tower.

"We need _ein_ glowing monster alive, _Herr _Anderson."

The Colonel looked up from his reports and blinked at her, "I was under the impression You wanted damn near all of them alive, Doctor?"

"_Nein_. This one we must prioritise."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"I _versteht_… I understand it. It is not just a messenger. It is a projection of a speaker."

His brow furrowed and he leaned forwards, "You're saying it's like a... a telegram or telephone call but..._in person_?"

"_Eine kleine_. It is a two way transmission. It can see and effect change around it, not just communicate… But there is a chance, once we understand the machinery that we may be able to trace the transmission."

Anderson blinked, not quite understanding. Then he smiled, "We trace it, we identify where their headquarters could be. And we don't have to charge headlong at random or try to tackle their whole army…"

"_Jawohl._"

"But… how can you pinpoint that from...an alien transmission?"

"_Herr_ Anderson, I do not question your faculty with shooting or the disposition of soldiers. Please do not 'quibble' over how I conduct research."

The soldier held up his hands in mock surrender, "I would not dare, madame. Well then, we shall endeavour to secure one of the beasts. Do you have any idea how we might accomplish this?"

Vahlen pondered and nodded slowly, "I think I may have an idea."

* * *

The bed felt _cold_. It wasn't a bed - more like a gurney, inlaid with _metal_ and _straps_. The lights felt all _wrong_ and _off_. Around was the sound of whimpers the _smell_ of antiseptic and copper. A scream echoed through the dim room. Green lights strobed overhead. It was _wrong_.

A face. Gaunt. Black glasses and a black hair slicked to the scalp. Mottled flesh and a leering grin.

Then there was _pain_. And _awareness_.

_No Nathaniel, no!"_

She jolted awake, practically collapsing out of the bed. Her legs still refused to respond and she beat her hands against the tiled floor, breath coming in heaving sobs. There was the sound of feed and light fell across her as the door opened. Hands gripped her and gently helped her back into the bed - the kind face of the hospital orderly was in front of her.

"You alright, Ma'am? Another dream?"

"It's so… so real. Like I'm there. In _hell_,"He smiled but it was clear he didn't understand. She gestured at her legs, "and I don't know when these will work… if ever again."

The man gave an awkward shrug, "Maybe a nice constitutional. It is nearly tea time."

"You let me sleep the morning away?" she felt shocked. The man shrugged.

"Doctors said bed rest. I understand your friends are downstairs. They check in regular like."

Beth sighed, "Very well then. If you can pick me one of the nice dresses… I suppose I best be about."

She was downstairs in the grounds only a few minutes later. They'd been moved off base and she was now in the Portsmouth hospital, a place for convalescing sailors and officers it seemed. George and Carrie had been given rooms by one of the Senior officers in his town house, as the man's family were apparently in London.

The pair waited for her now as the sun was drifting to the horizon. It was hard to see, a thick layer of cloud turning what should have been a bright summer afternoon to murk. Carrie smiled and waved.

"Elizabeth, so glad you could make it. We've been working with some of the naval gentlemen. Interesting, really."

George nodded as he saw Elizabeth only offer a weak smile, "It's why we wanted to talk to you, actually."

The wheelchair bound woman frowned at them, "Oh?"

"Yes, you see they're short handed what with the cordon and keeping all the ships afloat. We've found some work in their departments on base. Paperwork mostly. But it helps."

"Helps _how_?"

The pair exchanged glances, "With not feeling like we're no longer helping," offered Carrie. Elizabeth sighed and gestured to her seated form.

"I'm hardly in the best… well, state, now am I?"

"Pish posh, madame," spouted George, "They hardly need a marathon runner. Carrie is staffing the telegram exchange, they need more people to help with the communiques. I'm acting as an aide to the headquarters, keeping notes and minutes. Play to your strengths, madame. Doesn't matter if you are temporarily impaired. Has to be better than isolating yourself!"

"I quite agree, 'Beth," continued Carrie, "I nearly lost my mind to despair getting here. And we didn't fight this fair to just… give up, now did we? Please, try it, get out of this dismal place."

Beth felt inclined to argue, to get the orderly to wheel her back to the communal room and leave her looking out the window. But her own words, her own actions to try to pull Nathaniel out of his torporous mood echoed back in her mind. Much as she feared the idea, she did need to do _something_.

"Very well. I suppose you best take me to the docks, see whether I'll be… um, what is it those sailors do? Rigging? Weighing anchors?"

"That's the spirit! I'm sure they'll have you loading cannons in no time," chuckled George. He took the handles of her wheelchair from the orderly, who waved them off. As they meandered down the street away from the hospital a strange breeze blasted across the city. They saw people across the street clutch at hats and coats, casting their gaze about at the freak gust. Birds squawked and rose from rooftops and park trees and the flags atop the hospital whipped and cracked as the wind changed direction momentarily.

"What… what was that?" gasped Carrie, casting about her. Elizabeth hissed and clutched the side of her head as a sharp pain spiked there then vanished. She stared up at the clouds.

"Something… awful."


	23. Chapter 22

The troop continued along the tunnel, which broadened out as they advanced. Zhaojie called a halt a little further on and peered at the walls. There were several side corridors, which were little more than store rooms. Strange, glowing shields covered them, but the whole place looked like a hasty excavation, the door frames temporary installations. Cables ran from them to strange panels set into the earth walls, then back along the floor, to wherever the aliens had their power source.

The walls themselves weren't bare soil - patches of brickwork and the cement of foundations could be seen here and there. But there was also some sort of hard, resin like substance, reinforcing the earthworks.

"Check the side rooms, be cautious."

The troops fanned out. Some quick experimentation with the panels revealed themselves to be little more than switches. No keys required, it seemed. The first few rooms were empty but the fourth sent a man reeling back in shock.

Bodies, just piled like firewood. A few men clustered around the door and stared. One began to fidget, scanning up and down the corridor, "This… this is queer stuff, proper nasty. What the effin' hell you got us down here lookin' at, Chink-,"

Jiayi was suddenly there, delivering a ringing backhand to the startled soldier. The man staggered then raised his rifle at her. Zhaojie stepped between the pair and glared at the man. "That would not be wise, _gwailo. _Waste a bullet on me, on her, maybe these men will cut you down. Or maybe you pull all of _them_ down on us."

The man wavered, reality dousing cold water on hot emotion. His rifle drooped and he grumbled, "Yeah, still wrong…"

Zhaojie shrugged, "Then we right it. Corporal, are they alive?"

One of the men was checking the bodies and shrugged, "Can't tell, not getting any heartbeats, but they're warm. Covered in some… weird bloody grey-green shite. Looks like… wait, I've seen this before."

Zhaojie peered at the bodies, frowning, "Where? What is it?"

"Black smoke stuff. Out west way… but what we saw just turns the bodies… wrong. Like they've been left out in the sun too long. Get covered in stuff like this. But this lot just look… asleep."

"Salvaged, perhaps?" One of the other soldiers stepped forwards, "Saw a few of those skinny bastards scrabbling over bodies after those first… rockets landed in Chinatown. Maybe they took the healthy lot, left the rest."

Zhaojie nodded, "Can we move them?"

The Corporal felt around the resin and sighed, "it's like cement, we'd have to cut 'em out one by one."

"Fine. No time. If we secure the site, problem solved. If not, then we spare them the indignity of these monsters."

The men exchanged glances, but advanced onward. As they moved deeper, the resin became more prominent, forming strange, regular patterns on the wall. The tunnel narrowed again and branched off, The rightmost tunnel assailed them with a foul smell. The remaining engineer swore, "It's the ruddy sewer."

"Strange. We are below the underground line, now I think on it." mused Zhaojie's companion. He nodded slowly as he processed this.

"They are not using the rail network tunnels. Or at least not from here."

"Sewers though…?"

"The grey ones are small, likely able to fit the narrow tunnels. They're too tight for a man, are they not?"

The engineer tromped over, "Another thing. We detonate anything down here… liable to bring the line down too - main track is, what, maybe twenty feet up. We dislodge too much we destabilise there. And with all this gas, likely get blastback."

"We push on, maybe use smaller charges to at least discourage them? Can you produce something less likely to… cause catastrophe?"

"Some of your phosphorus stuff, yeah. But we bets be careful. Even firearms, open spark, could cause a whole ruddy washing list of problems."

After a quick check with the troops, bayonets were fixed and the steam-gun was hauled to the front. They moved forwards and came into yet another chamber. This one was long, with strange, glowing fronds and planets covering most of the walls and ceiling. A column sat at the far end, glowing the same sickly green as the alien weapons. Cables ran from it. _The power source_? Mused Zhaojie.

On the western wall, there was evidence of shattered brickwork and a group of men were standing around, carefully carrying large, glistening orbs towards it, They were supervised by two of the Tall-men, whilst a gaggle of the Insectoid beasts ferried more orbs from another chamber to the east, out of sight. They could hear a faint chattering from within, like crickets on a warm day.

"_What are they doing?"_ whispered the Corporal. Zhaojie watched and shook his head.

"_Those orbs… explosives, perhaps? Placed into the sewer? They do run under most of London…."_

"_And wash into the Thames or the water processing plants. They could save time…"_

"_But they go _under _the city first. Blow several of them at once and you could cause severe issues," _He beckoned the steam gun team over. Currently the squad was obscured in the tunnel entrance, as well as behind some shattered bricks and mortar. He pointed at the cluster of men, "_Are you able to hit them?"_

The gunner, a burly scotsman, one of the pair of Maxim gunners that Zhaojie and Shen had rescued at the start of all of this grinned at him, "_Too bloody right I can._"

Zhaojie gestured for men to arm their phosphorous grenades and had one of the engineers fall back with most of the Winchester wielders. The two large-bore riflemen he moved to stand with him - their rifles were heavy and would likely finish anything before it started - he needed this done _fast._

He let the men picked their targets then counted down from three. Two. One.

The steam gun _thudded_ with force that you felt in your lower gut. The iron rod hit home and a man was reduced to a fine spray of red gore. The man next to him was spun by the passage and fell, his arm twisted and the skin of his face ripped off by the air pressure.

The third and fourth humans tried to turn to move, but a phosphorous grenade popped between them sending them to the ground scrabbling at their eyes and throats.

The two Tall men had moved fast, just as the steam gun had fired. However, as they stood to take aim, the large-bore rifles boomed their opening arguments. One of the Tall men exploded backwards, the heavy calibre round doubling him over like a folded lawn chair.

The second was luckier, dodging the shot. It staggered, clutching a tear in its suit. A crossbow bolt landed in its gut and it, too, folded over, unconscious.

Silence fell. Zhaojie watched, then gestured forwards. He and Jiayi moved into the foul smelling room, feet crunching on the strange, red fronds that covered the cave floor. Wisps of phosphorous drifted, dissipating into the open hole into the low sewer tunnel. The large man crouched and peered at the strange orb one of the dead Irishmen had been carrying. It wasn't any kind of explosive he could recognise, even with the alien's strange engineering. It looked more like an… egg?

There was the sound of hissing from the far chamber. He realised he hadn't seen any Insectoids… with a fluid motion, the maxim gun was in his hands. The marksmen and steam gunner flanking him. The chamber adjacent to their current one was dark, lit only by strange, moving fronds, like the plants around them.

Except these fronds were moving _towards_ them.

With a squeal, a grey-alien launched itself from cover, trying to move to flank. A blast from a hunting rifle redecorated the bleak cavern wall with its brain matter. Another screeched out, but didn't fire. A crossbow bolt hit this one.

"Their weapons are heat based! They dare not fire!" yelled Zhaojie in triumph. His men grinned and advanced.

That confidence faded as a _centaur_ of a beast rushed from the dark and lifted one of the soldiers bodily from his feet. Claws jutted from the beast's midriff and slammed into the man's gut. The sound of his scream was awful. The creature tossed him to one side and turned multifaceted eyes towards Zhaojie.

He didn't pause, his gun jumping to life. A few rounds stitched the creature along its flank and it staggered away, howling. Jiayi pushed his weapon down as he released the trigger, "Gas! Boss, the _gas!"_

He swore - he'd been lucky - Maxim guns generated too much heat and likelihood of sparks… he backed away as the creature staggered, trying to get a good view. Then there was a _thump_ as an iron rod caught its head and tore it off. The giant mantis thing collapsed.

The _Delta_ gunner gestured for him to fall back as he reloaded, the second heavy-bore gunner next to him. Zhaojie gestured to Jiayi and she ran forwards and hefted the fallen marksman's rifle. As she stood, the man's arm shot up and gripped her. The dead man's head lolled and milky white eyes regarded her.

The corpse _stood_, dragging itself upright. Jiayi swore, then swung the heavy rifle. The barrel clipped the corpse's temple, sending it staggering backwards, but it then lurched forwards again. She scrambled back and grappled for Zhaojie's ammunition satchel.

A screech echoed across the room as three more centaur-insects charged in. One went down immediately to their still standing heavy-bore sniper. Zhaojie growled at his own sudden defencelessness.

"Move it you arseholes! We got problems back here too!"

The engineer behind them threw another phosphorous grenade which popped and sent the creatures skittering back. They didn't seem to be as bothered as their… colleagues? Handlers? Zhaojie honestly didn't know what to think. They were like _demons_. His mind reeled as he realised he could hear gunfire _behind_ them.

"What is happening?"

"Bloody mutons… flanked us from that other corridor. Maybe they got a barracks down there?"

The creatures suddenly charged through the white wall of phosphorous. The heavy rifle boomed and one sprawled, dead. The steam gun thudded and another one went down. The third vaulted its comrades, uncaring, and swiped with a claw. The engineer cried out and staggered backwards, clutching a wound on his throat. A leg claw sank down and impaled his leg. Zhaojie roared and swung the maxim gun. It connected with a thud and the creature fell backwards, chitinous skull crushed.

The engineer hissed in pain and clutched his wounded next. Zhaojie squatted next to him as his comrades fired into the cloud at other indistinct shapes. Screeches and low gurgles could be heard. The engineer chuckled. Zhaojie realised he wasn't even sure of the man's name. Baxter? Barry?

"Well, didn't get me artery, still hurts a buggering load."

"I can carry…"

"Not me and your ruddy gun. You aren't that strong… and orders sir. We need to seal this bastard up. Maybe… maybe get more next time. Can't have those things… ruining Covent Garden, now, can we?"

Zhajoie gripped the man's hand and gave him a curt nod. He looked up as the zombie creature lurched through the smoke and _burst_. Three smaller monsters landed on the ground, where once a comrade had stood. He felt bile rise in his throat and stood.

"DOWN!"

His team dropped, and his maxim gun opened up. The three newborns skittered and tried to dodge, but went down. The room flashed as some gas caught. Zhaojie felt the hair on his face crisp, but he held the trigger down, firing blindly. He heard the gun click dry and lowered it. The engineer managed to strugged upright..

"Need to be… by the pipe. Seal it proper."

"Cover us! Jiayi, get the maxim reloaded."

Zhaojie helped the engineer over to the shattered sewer and the man sagged next to it. Meanwhile, jiayi had followed, threading a new belt into the gun. The engineer worked fast, shirt staining red as blood seeped through. He sagged next to the prepared charges and chuckled.

"No time for a fuse. Need to do this by hand…."

Zhajoie looked up as another inhuman shriek came from the far chamber. He nodded to himself then unfolded the maxim tripod and set it down next to the engineer, along with the ammunition bag, "It has been an honour, Lance Corporal Baxter."

The man swallowed painfully and grinned, "Likewise, Chinaman… Mr Zhang. Make these bastards pay."

Zhaojie nodded and turned. He saw another three creatures emerge from the darkness, their attention pulled by the sudden stattacco burst of the maxim gun. He gestured at his men as they jogged towards them. The steam gun fired and another monster went down, "We are leaving!"

They fell back up the tunnel. All paused as the maxim gun suddenly ceased firing. Then the world _shook_. Dirt cascade from the ceiling and a cloud of brick dust and soil erupted behind them, sealing the tunnel.

The group picked themselves off the floor and scrambled back to the junction.

Zhaojie cursed - the scene there wasn't much better. One man lay dead, his body smoking in the tunnel. Cover was sparse, only the bends in the main tunnel or the curve of the side tunnel they'd been down offering much in the way of defence. Zhaojie could see that the men had used the phosphorous grenades to mask themselves. But green blasts still flew up the corridor and past them.

The last engineer with them was crouched down, wiring up some more charges. He shot Zhaojie a questioning look, then returned to his work. He didn't give the man much more than a glance, then got _Delta _reposition.

Just in time too - a huge, green armoured figure burst through the smoke and delivered a sickening blow with the butt of its weapon to one of the soldiers unlucky enough to have stepped out of cover. The man fell, dead.

In response, the steam gun coughed again and the muton howled as an arm was torn away. It snarled, levelled its gun and fired, point blank, into the gunners chest. The man went down, but coughing as his armour took the brunt of the blast.

Jiayi hefted her salvaged rifle and fired. She was a scant ten feet away from the towering beast and somehow she missed, gouging out a clod of resin-coated soil instead.

A crack from further up the tunnel sounded and the muton's head exploded like a ripe melon. Further back, their marksman had returned.

"Fall back! We need to blow the charges."

Zhajoie urged his men backwards, hauling the wounded Delta gunner to his feet. Two more men hefted their fallen colleagues and retreated. Behind them, Zhaojie heard a bellow, echoed by another. Two more brutes lumbered up the tunnel, pushing through the phosphorous. With a growl he jammed the last of the steel rods home and nodded at the man carrying the power pack. He levelled the steam gun and fired.

One of the mutons vanished backwards into the cloud, howling in pain as it fell. The creature's comrade slammed a fist against its armour and charged. .45 rounds pinged off the green armour as it bore down on them. Zhaojie looked at the engineer next to him as they fell back. The man looked back at him and nodded, then pressed the wired detonator in his hand.

The earth around the muton exploded, sending the creature flying forwards. Soil cascaded down, sealing both tunnels. The dazed muton tried to stand but Jiayi stepped forward and fired her crossbow, point blank, into the exposed muscles of its collar. The creature howled, then gurgled, its head slumping into unconsciousness.

They were back in the "storage" room. Zhajoie handed the heavy weapon back to Delta, who seemed to be fit enough to walk and carry, albeit in some pain. Around them, dust began to fall from the ceiling, cracks spider-webbing across the rock and earth. With a grunt, Zhaojie Zhang hefted the bulk of the muton, putting one of its arms over his shoulders. Another soldier jogged over and helped him heft it.

The bedraggled survivors fell back, back through the first cavern, up towards the sweet, missed daylight.

* * *

Hackett watched with amazement as a cloud of dust fountained up over Baker street. There was the sound of screams and shouts, as well as a muffled crashing sound. A couple of buildings nearby shook and cascaded dust. One listed suddenly.

He turned his attention back to the excavation sight and frowned. Half an hour later, the survivors emerged. Caked in dust and grime, he counted eleven. Of them, most seemed pretty shook up - limped, carrying comrades. And.. .a _muton_?

He practically goggled, and yelled for his men to move in and support. Zhaojie staggered, relieved of his alien burden and nodded as Hackett approached.

"Guess it was bad down there?"

Zhaojie shook his head, "I think we only saw part of it. Things are… perhaps more devious than we expected."

They all tensed as the ground shook again. Another cloud of dust fountained up over the buildings. Hackett frowned, "More explosives?"

Zhaojie actually looked embarrassed, "I think… that was their generator."

"Well, hopefully it's not _too_ bad then…"

The Chinaman sagged back against the wooden fence and drank in the fresh air, "We can only hope, Sergeant."

"And my men?"

"I am sorry. Four dead. Privates Jameson, Philson and Lance Corporal Rickards dead in combat. Corporal Baxter… well, I would like to recommend him for some recognition. Courage… he did your military proud, Sergeant."

"Well, that's what we all say we want to hear. Let's see what the big boss makes of it all."

"Yes. Let us hope this is… worth it."


	24. Chapter 23

Panic was the only term that could really _encapsulate_ the mood. Anderson looked at the large map pinned to the corkboard - it was a good ten feet by six and depicted the entirety of the British isles. Large coloured swatches had been placed across counties with string leading away to notes pinned to the side. Most of the north had black coverings, which about summed up the state of things. Strangely, they'd actually gotten word from Scotland - Inverness of all places.

Aberdeen held, Edinburgh was experiencing only minor sallies and no sign of these "Walkers" - the messengers on the boat had practically scoffed when they'd been mentioned, thinking the whole thing a military exercise.

The loss of the north presented another issue - loss of coal and steel. Most of the country's industry was situated around the mills of Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Newcastle; a lot of agriculture spanned there too and there was no word from Lincolnshire.

There'd been a rumour of a vast "flying warehouse" made of metal that had, apparently, accosted and made off with a large proportion of Liverpool's townsfolk. That, combined with all the other piffle about the aliens speaking French, being a German plot, or America being their _allies_ was enough to make his head spin.

Right now, he had most of the south overlaid with thin outlines of yellow and red. London itself was, now, solid red. A few hours earlier he would have classified it as "disgruntled". Now, not so much.

He turned and nodded as Hackett and Zhang tromped into the briefing room, "Gentlemen, welcome. I trust you have availed yourself of the ablutions?"

The two men nodded, Hackett saluting smartly, "All the men accounted for and briefing up Doc' Vahlen's scurrying clerks."

"Good. First off, let me commend you both. I understand from the perimeter team that it was a rather rough bout for all concerned. We didn't expect these fellows to go down easy. Also, well done on securing a live Muton. Moi… _Doctor_ Vahlen is practically giddy at the chance. And I imagine Shen will be of use in securing the blessed thing. Good job the Tower was a Prison, eh?"

The men nodded wearily and Anderson gestured for them to sit at the narrow briefing table. Zhang sighed and cricked his neck, "Where would you like us to start?"

"At the part where, to us a local colloquialism, it went 'tits up'," Anderson's face only twitched slightly, a ghost of a grin on his face, betrayed by the tiredness in his eyes.

Zhang massaged his face, still red and stinging from the blastback, "At about the point we found out the enemy employs insects."

Anderson frowned, "The Insectoids?"

Hackett interjected, "No, sir. Big buggers. Taller'n a man. Look like some sort of centaur crossed with a bloody farmers tool shed. And that isn't the worst of it," the man glanced at Zhaojie who gave a shudder.

"They raise the dead. And make more of themselves from them."

"Corpse defilers?" breather the Colonel, shaking his head, "Is that where the disappearing people…?"

"Perhaps… there were eggs. But you mistake my meaning. They make more of themselves in _minutes."_

Silence fell and Anderson eyed the Chinaman, fingers drumming on the table, "Excuse me?"

"They killed one of the men, placed something into him. He rose and attacked us. Then… burst."

"Burst…"

"And there were three fledgling beasts."

Anderson listened, eyes fixed on the pair as they recounted the retreat. He nodded slowly and exhaled - their account was brief, but raised a lot more questions.

"Gentlemen, I will speak plainly. Whilst your actions have netted us some palpable successes, especially in light of this information, we have been dealt a blow. Your explosive intervention has ruptured several sewer pipes and, by extension, gas mains. One underground line has collapsed in Baker Street, resulting in five deaths and seventeen injuries. We have several fires around Euston and Great Portland street," he held up a hand to forestall any interruption, "I do not wish to take away the good you have done; indeed, with this information we can now prepare areas for the incursion of… insect monstrosities and account for them as potential threats fielded by our foes. But the local populace is now spooked. War was a reality but still somewhat distant. It was unreal. Now it is here."

Zhang frowned, "They will have to face the reality soon, when the Martians are marching down the Mall."

"Indeed. But until it is truly desperate, the population and, by extension, their political masters are a thing I must factor in. Rioting citizens and obstrusive and obstructive politicians will make funding and carrying on our activities harder. Again, I do not wish to take away what you have achieved… but you must be aware of consequence and the impact of larger scale failure set against small scale victory. It matters not if we win every fight, if we then lose the wider war. Now, go get a pint down you. You have earned it. I will smooth ruffled feathers," The men rose and headed for the door. Anderson spoke up again, "Zhaojie. A moment. You displayed courage, I'm told. Not something I or the staff expected of a non-enlisted man. To that end I am making you an honourary Lieutenant, within the bounds of this organisation. For leadership in the field, bravery and commitment to the mission."

The Chinaman frowned, then glanced at Hackett. The man grinned and shrugged, "Don't look at me. I work for a ruddy living… present company excluded, o' course, Colonel sir…"

Zhang looked back and gave a crooked smile, then saluted, "Thank you, sir._Shaowei Zhang_ has a ring to it. I will do well by you and… the Exalted Society?"

Anderson shrugged, "I expect no less… and yes, we need a spiffier name. Dismissed gentlemen. Go get some rest."

* * *

Shen smiled as the steam cannon was dumped, heavily, onto his workbench. He looked at the two men who had hauled it back in, one of whom looked like he'd been on the losing end of a fight with a dragon. Shen indicated the man's face.

"Not my machine, I trust?"

"Nay sir, just a wee altercation with an exploding sewer and a recalcitrant bastard of a Muton."

"Good, good. And the weapon, did it perform well?"

"Aye, knocked a few buggers about and fair cored one of the tall green jimmies wi oot much of a care. Reloading is a bit of an arse, and dragging two of you about, wi' one cracking awah at it, makes it a wee bit luggy."

"No worse than a Maxim?"

"Maxim _feels_ dangerous… _rattattat_ and all that gubbins, aye? This hits hard… and disnae need to hit on bull tae really _hit_. Maybe more shots 'afore a reload? Doable, ya ken?

Shen nodded slowly, "I may be able to do something. Thank you, gentlemen. I will see what I can do about.. Portability. We work with the tools we have."

"Aye, a grand venture tae be sure. Thank'ee grandad."

The two men limped away, heading for beer, a medic or possibly both. Shen slotted his hands into his sleeves and frowned at the machine - a problem for a later time. He nodded to a pair of engineers, who set about dismantling the makeshift weapon, to clean and maintain it. He decided to take a walk through his various foundries and workshops. An empire practically gifted to him by these _fine_ Western gentlemen. Of course, he had a feeling several of the society may have included a Mountain Master from back home, if their connections were as wide ranging as he expected.

He observed the testing on a new set of interlaced armour - ceramic and a form of hardened steel. So far it had resisted heat and turned away some direct ballistics as well - the weight was an issue, as the thing looked like a suit of medieval armour done up in military parade red and olive green. A good 80 pounds of weight alone, without loading up on the arms or legs much.

The next workshop had more grenades being made. _Pitards_ as some of the soldiers referred to them as. These ones he'd had loaded with phosphorus, but the men were creating some shrapnel variants as well. They needed a way to whittle numbers without exposing the men to direct fire where possible. Maximise one's advantages in the field - so far, these aliens had a limited and unprotected infantry. Their… armoured units would require more thought as there was only so high a calibre a man could carry before the rifle tore his _own_ arm off.

Hence why his steam cannon had anchors and a tripod.

Shen came to another room where a pair of engineers, both young women from his dockyards, were busy wiring together what looked like a truncheon. It was covered with needles and wrapped in copper wires. He frowned as one of the "Insectoids" was dragged in - one of the few live ones captured by a random patrol. He made a mental note to join Doctor Vahlen in the next interrogation - though these things were difficult to converse with.

He watched as the Engineers hooked the truncheon to a large vat of liquid. One then stepped forward and slammed the truncheon onto the side of the alien's head. There was a flash of light and the smell of ozone filled the air, mingling with burnt flesh. The creature was limp on the floor. Shen tutted and the two engineers spun, then bowed, the guard near the door just nodding in response.

"Lower the Wattage… adjust for the shift in Voltage in the wiring. Some form of breaker to limited the electro-shock. We cannot be bringing in grilled captives - we can't be sure how to treat injury to preserve them, yes?"

The engineers nodded and set back to work. The guards dragged the wounded alien away. Shen heard a gunshot and nodded, satisfied - better safe than sorry.

He was still carrying his shard of alien metal - light to the touch, apparently a good conductor and heat dissipator. He tossed it in the air as he moved back through the workshops and glanced at the armour set again, just as the shard landed in his hand. He froze, looked down, then looked back at the suit.

"I wonder…. You there, get me more of the sky-samples. And a report on the smelting potentials, temperature tests. Has anyone tried moulding it yet?"

He stalked away, gathering a trail of engineers and technicians in his wake, like an intellectual comet. As he walked, he looked down at the shard in his hand. Sharp. Like a spear tip?

"Two birds… one stone, perhaps?"

* * *

The carriage ride to Covent Garden was twenty minutes. It gave him Anderson chance to think. Night had fallen and he'd changed into a less military set; black tie and tails, with white gloves and a top hat. Hastily assembled from what was in the mess, it just about fit after some _very_ rapid alterations.

The carriage rattled to a halt outside of the Opera House. Large, gaudy posters advertised _The Mikado_ as the production currently touring.

He alighted and nodded to the coachman, "Joseph, park up. I think I'll be some time. And need to be able to head back on the double should anything arise."

"Yessir," grunted his driver. A pair of soldiers stood on the footplate to the rear and hopped off. They carried Winchester rifles, rather than normal British weaponry and had the strange leather-overlay on their uniform. The crest on the arm was a red crescent within a six sided shield, above a stylised star.

His bodyguard fell into step behind him, drawing some small glances from the thin crowd gathered. It was fascinating how the world clung to normalcy with such weirdness scant miles way. But perhaps that was how humanity pushed itself on - routine, familiarity, a sheer stubbornness to bow before whatever horror leapt across the void.

"_Let us drink our tea, dammit," _chuckled Anderson to himself. He entered the Opera House foyer and was met by an usher, who led him to the private members bar at the top of the stairs. His troops hung back and took station outside the door.

Within was a familiar crowd - the masked Spokesman - he had to ask about that one day - along with several ambassadors, MPs and the familiar face of General Marter. Anderson made polite small talk, accosted by a few luminary individuals, as he made his way over to his superior. Or was he? The actual relationship was an opaque situation.

The General turned and smiled, "William, glad you could make it. I'm told this is a fantastic performance."

"I'll take your word for it, Richie. More of a classics man, myself. Plot I can understand at a tempo I can follow."

His friend slapped his shoulder and chuckled, "Jolly good! Well, it's the music you're really here for. Just laugh when everyone else does."

"And our auspicious company?"

"Well, a chance to check in. I know we rode you hard last meeting, but things are afoot. To let you know, I've got your back over the whole Baker Street affair. If what those reports you had couriered over are true, then the loss may be worthwhile. But I think these gentlemen want to see some forward momentum."

"I have a hundred men, Richard. Hardly a chance at death or glory with that. This isn't Roarke's drift, I hope."

"Well, it shouldn't come to that. We've got a number of Regiments and some… revamped artillery moving into place near Horsell Common, as well as some reserves. Chaps out there assure me we can overwhelm their defences and put pay to that little beach head of theirs."

Something nagged at Anderson about that. He eyed the General, "And you believe they'll succeed?"

The man had the good grace to look uncertain, "Well if they don't, not sure what else we can do. We have no equal to that walking armour of theirs, save sustained barrage. But they are flesh and blood, have flesh and blood needs and limits. That much seems apparent, despite the demonic element of course. And I need to do _something_ to stop the bloody Regimental commanders just sending forays that whittle away at our reserves in needless, wasteful charges. A full thrust, en masse… rumour is it had some impact in Russia. And we know that's where the buggers are congregating in our fair land."

Anderson nodded, and plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, "Well, let us hope it buys us some time at the very least," he noticed a tall young man watching them, hair slicked back and oiled, "Who's the fellow there? Looking at me like I'm the last bit of ham on the breakfast buffet?"

"Ah. Smytheson. Representative of The East India Company."

"Oh, joy,"

"Yes, well, he's the other reason we need to talk today. Sub contracts, various things… he has an offer."

"An offer?"

"Well, a mix between an offer and a demand. And considering the Army is currently in a bit of a bind, we're reliant on the EIC to bolster us. 800,000 men, Anderson, globally, under their command. Can't waste potential like that."

Anderson shuddered. He knew the reality. The bastards wore uniforms and had ranks but they didn't _really_ have loyalty to anyone but the men who ran their balance sheets; nor were they constrained by a concept of morality or behaviour expected. Of course, he knew the British army was hardly a nest of raving patriots, but he still saw them as a better _class_ of soldier. But necessity made strange bedfellows.

He and Richard made more small talk, then Anderson circulated - being _seen_ at soirees like this mattered. Keeping everyone on side. He exchanged pleasantries with the blustery Russian Ambassador who was full of tales of their latest apparent victory. The French and German representatives were polite but curt, clearly expecting _more_ from the British. The small collection of African representatives, a mix of white Colonial administrators and, of all things, three tribal representatives, were fairly neutral, even cautious. Some private enterprise beyond the EIC were also present, asking about… purchasing options. Investment? Returns on said investment? He brushed them off with a non committal smile.

A few Naval officers spoke with him briefly and thanked him, again, for the Defence of Portsmouth.

The EIC fellow ignored him. Strange.

The ushers then called them forward and their little groups were split and led to various boxes and the show began.

It was typical comedy - farce to music. He remembered this was usually staged at the Savoy, but was tonight being shown here. Typical of Gilbert and Sullivan of course. There was an undercurrent of satire here, which Anderson did appreciate - the pomposity of the nobility, the ebb and flow of social standing - ironic it was being watched by such a "powdered crowd" in his view.

"Are you a follower, Colonel?"

Anderson glanced to his right and noticed his neighbour in the box was Smytheson. He gave the man a tight smile, "As I said to our mutual friend, General Marter, I'm more a fan of the spoken arts."

"Indeed. I won't try to woo you with a verse. If this is not your fancy, shall we retire to the smoking room? I feel it a more appropriate venue."

Anderson eyed the man, tempted to say no. But likely he would have to deal with whatever _shenanigans_ would be forthcoming. He nodded and stood, gathering his walking cane, hat and gloves, "Lead on, MacDuff…."

The smoking room was adjacent to the bar and had a small balcony affording a view of the Market below. Smytheson settled himself into a wingback chair and Anderson sat opposite. The man was clearly his junior, but had an air of cold arrogance that he recognised in the more ambitious of his officer cohort. This man had clearly taken that in a more mercantile direction. Anderson leaned back and fixed the man with a steady gaze of his own.

Smytheson frowned and coughed, "Well, I suppose you would like to know why I wished to speak with you?"

"And so urgently it could not wait, too," mused Anderson. He twitched a grin - the man was eager. Had he played his hand? Or was this a longer game."

"Well, I am a man who dislikes frippery. So, I will not dance about things. First, the East India Company lays claim to any and all artefacts recovered by any agents within the Empire; this is included within our establishing contract and commercials, signed in 1600, emended 1763 to cover artefacts of a value beyond the bounds of the country and not covered by Royal ownership as a Treasure Trove."

Anderson kept his face passive, mind reeling at what the man was saying. Smytheson didn't seem to notice or care.

"As such, we will be looking to render a levy on your continued use and also any possible damages inflicted upon recovered artefacts. This will be deducted from the bounty of retrieval, also covered in the Treasure Trove act. _Second_, we own the patent, via a rather complex system of subcontractors and subsidiaries, of various British military armaments and property. I won't bother a rigid military mind with such minutiae as I don't have the time to explain. However, it has come to our attention that you have unlicensed armourers and… unsavoury types working on _modifying_ clearly licensed weaponry. Again, we will be looking at compensation, subject to potential litigious action, against the British Army for damages to owned property or infringement of patent."

Anderson watched as the man leaned back, "Is that all then?"

"Oh no. We will, of course, offer decent recompense for recovered items. But, as I'm sure you understand, we can't allow such items to remain in the hands of hoi polloi or even _soldiers,_ regardless of their remit."

The Colonel steepled his fingers and nodded sagely, "I quite understand. I would be interested in seeing the documentation justifying the seizure of the… artefacts."

"Well I think…"

"And I assume you will also be issuing said documentation to the invaders?"

The man blinked, "Excuse me?"

The Colonel spread his arms and smiled, "Well, who's to say they aren't _also_… appropriating items, hmm? After all, did you see them bring them with them? Or could they too, have happened upon a hidden cache?"

Smytheson smiled thinly, "You're trying to be clever, sir. It doesn't become you. You have your orders, now be a good tin soldier and…"

Anderson stood suddenly and loomed over the man. He placed his hands behind his back and inclined his head, "Mr Smytheson. I understand you have some of my colleagues over a barrel - I do not care to be placed in a similar situation by a gentleman who has not demonstrated his capacity to back his words. Whilst I'm sure you have quill-clerks and various investors quaking in their boots, I have been stabbed, shot, harassed and watched men burn to death in the same afternoon. _Lawyers_ do not peterb me. In fact, I'd welcome them, assuming there's a standing court left in the country by the end of the year."

Smytheson glared up at Anderson, "Are you threatening me, sir?"

"Do not be so crass, Mr Smytheson. I wouldn't dream of it. But I would remind you of certain realities - we have an enemy at the gates, An enemy who has access to various people and is distributing weaponry to collaborators within our fair city. We have a limited means of combating them. Tensions are running high and the rule of law is tenuous. Indeed, _martial_ law is in effect I believe."

Anderson approached the bar and poured himself a drink, then one for Smytheson. He returned and handed the amber glass to the man, then returned to his seat. The EIC man frowned and sipped, "Are you implying…"

"_Secondly_, I must act in accordance with the defence of the isles. The EIC has no mandate for an armed presence here so… I must therefore ask why a man with no army is asking the only armed presence within these isles to _disarm_."

"We are not. We are simply enforcing our rights, under charter and law."

"To, no doubt, reinforce your holdings overseas, yes?"

"Mr Anderso-"

"_Colonel, you jumped up likspittle." _Smytheson blinked and frowned. The Colonel took a sip of his whisky, "Do continue, Smytheson."

"Ahem. Of course. And we are better positioned to facilitate an understanding of the technology contained. _Colonel_. You may not be aware, but this little secret society functions because of the EIC. It is facilitated by us. By our network of telegraph stations, our various couriers and transports, our connections into government. So, in the interest of polite discourse, do consider _your_ next words carefully."

Anderson smiled and patted his pockets, then produced a revolver. He levelled it at Smytheson who blanched, "Indeed. So, I will say _again_. I must ask why a man such as myself, charged with defence of these isles is being asked to disarm, by a man who I do not know who claims powers beyond my ken. As we are at war, I am within my rights to shoot you for attempting to obstruct an officer in the execution of his duty. Perhaps even treason. Oh, I'm sure that I'd be court martialled _eventually_. After the whole messy business with mass murdering aliens is dealt with first. And before you claim you're important, think on this - the EIC survives deaths every day. There'll be another fellow in here tomorrow, hair parted the other way, doing your job. And the society, my role, will continue. The relationship may change, lines of dialogue will shift. But think on that."

Smytheson was fixed on the pistol, "You're going to _kill_ me? For asking for what is legal-"

"No. I am reminding you of the current balance of power, Mr Smytheson. We are at war. War costs money, yes. Paying soldiers, buying bullets. But this war is different, Mr Smytheson. It is _here_. In London. The EIC will feel the heat as it can't move material into the country. Loans may be called in from home. Investors will panic. I've seen it before. I can see you're thinking of taking some trinkets and running and thought we were, perhaps, an easy mark of readily available material. London EIC collapses, Indian office may still be standing and you can start fresh. Or maybe sell the material on and make a few pounds and shillings in the process."

"How dare…"

Anderson cocked the pistol and the man clamped his jaw shut, "Quick study I see. Well done. Now, what is going to happen is this - you can get your army of lawyers to sue me as they like, maybe when they can find a law court that has a judge who hasn't fled the city or is hunkering down at home. You may even be able to bully a few soldiers and regimental types to _try_ and seize items directly. But try that and I will have you found and dragged to me kicking and screaming. And I will hang you like a common deserter. As for your licenses, we will work out an _equitable_ arrangement for the duration of the emergency. I imagine government bonds will be issued at some point, perhaps we can finagle a good arrangement of those."

Anderson slipped the hammer back off of the revolver and put it back into his jacket. Smytheson relaxed and glared at him, "My superiors will hear about this. I'll have your job, as you'll find I am not a man to be trifled with. I'll have you…"

"Is it wise to rant at a man who just had a pistol levelled at you? No, Mr Smytheson… you will help us. No retaliation. Save it for the monsters at the door. Tell you what, come down to the Tower tomorrow. We'll let you have a poke around, look at these… artefacts you think are yours. Bring a lawyer as well. We'll have ours. Heck, if you want to try that, bring some bailiffs. As I said, the war is here, and your rules only matter if people follow them or enforce them. Right now we have riots in the street and an impressionable mob. People catch wind they think you're trying to _profit_ or cut and run?" Anderson gave a shrug.

Smytheson squirmed and glared, "You're just a soldier…."

"A man of strategy, Mr Smytheson. I have no doubt you're just the first who'll try to chip away. Maybe you'll try again. But I may need your help down the line, so, as I said, come by the tower. Let's discuss a more reasonable arrangement."

"You think I'll negotiate after you _threatened_ me?"

"Maybe not. But do you want to wait until those Tripods are walking down Pall mall? Or when a Muton has pulled your arms off? Or maybe one of the new fellows we met today makes you a walking womb for its young. Don't believe me… as I said, we'll let you have a look. And then talk to _you_ about licensing fees."

He watched the man stagger away and chuckled. A tough negotiator when people played by his rules, he reckoned. Had this been peacetime and a normal evening, he probably would've been arse over tit. Of course, now he'd have to talk to the speaker about funding ramifications. But it was that or hand over a tonne of strategic material for… what?

If the chap was sensible, then he'd talk. If he was just interested in being a vulture then maybe not,

Anderson sipped the whisky and sighed. For now, it was a problem for the morning. And right now he had a good Scotch and a fine cigar. A moment to reflect, at least. He let the tremble in his hand subside and took another sip. What was this war turning them into?


	25. Chapter 24

It was not a good morning. It'd been a few days since the opera and so far the EIC had been relatively quiet. Oh he'd been summoned for a "no tea" chat with the General, but that had been relatively… calm. The fellow had asked a question, he'd answered, maybe not to the _fullest_ truth.

And now they were in the situation that the EIC had decided to "defer" funding to the wider Society whilst they "re- assessed" things.

But on the upside, they had retained their workshops, the material and the function of their independence. He'd laid all that out and countered Marter that, had the chap actually _asked_ then the conversation could have been cordial. He'd also raised the issue of alien impersonators and proven collaboration with elements of British society intent on anarchy - why would this just be limited to Fenian separatists or criminals with opportunistic moments.

Marter had looked him square in the eye, "Do you suspect _everyone_ Will?"

"Anyone not ready to heft a rifle in defence of this city and the Empire, yes. Men who cajole with a chequebook and expect that to carry weight… well, sir, gets my dander up. Bled enough for the Company interests in the colonies, think I'm owed one minor loss of control."

"He says you threatened to shoot him."

"I used the pistol to illustrate a point, sir. I am sorry that a man accustomed to partaking of fine wines and comfortable chairs was not able to grasp the nuance of my analysis."

He'd had more of a back and forth but had been given a rebuke by the General, "You're on thin ice, Will. If the situation wasn't so dire and my options so few, you'd be out on your ear. As it is, your card's been marked by some in the Society… but I will say, off the record, you've won over a few of the chaps here. But watch your step. Others'll see how you've handled Smytheson and may not telegraph their next move so openly."

So here he was, sat in the mess in the Tower, nursing a drink. He'd know there'd be politics, but since this little venture wasn't _quite_ the British Army, it had some additional headaches.

Five bombs across the city; seven separate strikes by the aliens; a riot in Bermondsey. And everyone looked to _him_ and the "Exalted Company" as one passing Major had derisively termed them, to solve it all! Of course, the Constabulary and the Yeoman brigades in London had helped. They'd gotten four of the bombs, but the fifth had taken out a set of shops in Oxford street. A firefight around Kings Cross had been targeted at civilians and they'd beaten them back.

But it was so much, never ending. And this was just _London_.

He sighed and leaned back. The door rattled and Moira Vahlen stepped in. She caught sight of him and frowned, "Herr Anderson, it is only 10:15. A bit early for a _kleines Getrank, ja?_"

"I've been awake since 7 yesterday Morning. This is practically still evening for me. You'll excuse me a small indulgence to keep myself steady."

The Doctor frowned and took a seat opposite him, "You are troubled it seems."

"Finding it tricky to see the wood for the trees, y'know? We've got objectives but feels like we're on the back foot. No communication devices sighted, no push options, just reeling wherever the buggers punch. Navy is getting restless and Parliament has pressure to send it out to support the colonies. Other MPs are saying we should park another five Ironclads on the Thames just in case. And no ruddy movement around Horsell, save for a potential valiant push which.. Well I'm worried."

"The heat ray. We still have no effective counter."

"Save sticking everyone in some sort of mobile bloody castle."

"A colleague from the Society for Engineering… he has some rather drastic ideas there. But the problem is the steam engine… the excess heat turns his concept into a steam-broiler rather than an effective _kampfsmachine_"

Anderson sighed again and nodded, "If we could replicate their weapons, maybe even their machinery, we could strike a more effective blow."

"Ah, well, then I am timing my arrival to perfection. How you English always describe us in the Germanic states - getting the trains on time?"

"Do go one," he leaned forward, resting elbows on knees, glass cradled in his hands.

"Shen feels he has accomplished something. I have made some headway as well and Bradford has something even more exciting. May I borrow you, or is your current company sufficient?" she glanced pointedly at his glass. Anderson smiled and tossed the remnant into the fire which flared briefly.

"Lead on, fair maid."

* * *

In the workshop Anderson found himself staring at a segmented suit of armour, mounted on a mannequin.. It looked… slight, however, with a blue tinge to it's layering. Nearby on a table lay several ranks of bullets, stacked point up in neat rows. Anderson smiled politely and waited. Bradford lounged against the door frame, a half grin on his face. He was sporting some light stubble, his moustache growing thicker now.

Shen stepped forward and rapped his knuckles on the armour. It made the sound of tiling being struck, "I call it carapace armour. Our new chitinous friends gave me the idea. And our older ideas on keeping a man fighting longer. Weight was an issue with our prototypes. But the enemy has gifted us with a solution. Two fold, in fact."

He stepped back and took a revolver proffered by a waiting assistant. Then he leveled the pistol at the armour and fired. Anderson flinched and then blinked. The round had sparked off the armour, leaving only a faint dent and scratch.

"What the devil?"

"Our new alloy. We have worked out, thanks to Doctor Vahlen, how to effectively melt it and mould it without it losing its consistency or breaking down into constituent elements. Part of the material is a new element we are referring to as "Elerium". Very volatile and not something we can replicate. The alloy is made by,... Well have no clue."

"_Ja_. The method for maintaining the bonds is… difficult. But with samples we are able to create effective armour plating as you can see here. Our fallen mechanical friends have yielded a surprising amount. And we have salvaged parts from discarded weaponry, raided supply depots and other sources… donations from confused citizenry, for example."

"Indeed. But as you can see, its durability is most effective. The Muton e have encountered wear armour scaled up, as it were, and more densely packed. Hence their… resilience. However, we have found a rather interesting weakness," Shen produced his sharpened scrap of alloy and approached the mannequin. He dragged the shard across the armour. The noise was worse than fingers down a chalk board. He gestured at the deep groeve left. Anderson blinked.

"Surely you'd need something stronger to do that?"

"Something we're still looking into, but sufficiently sharp alloy has more penetrative impact than our densest steel. Observe."

Shen stepped back and levelled the pistol again. The shot rang out and the mannequin rocked back, a hole clearly visible on the chest plate where the heart would be. The old man turned, a smug grin on his face. Anderson blinked.

"That's one _hell_ of a vulnerability. Surely…"

"The enemy utilise directed energy or heat weaponry. The only _physical_ weaponry we have seen are their rockets, which are just carriages for chemical attacks, or the Muton ritual blades," that came from Vahlen. Shen nodded.

"Yes, this illustrates an interesting blind spot. A complacency perhaps. Note their indifference to our cannons until they were felled by them. And what happened? A shift in strategy. They are not accustomed to our method of warfare, our weapons."

"So their armour is, what? Resistant to their OWN weapons?"

"And why not?" retorted Vahlen, "We do likewise. Until now we had not considered manufacturing counter-heat armour. Or _medizinisches _from dead bodies… of aliens. But the fact is we now have a firm counter for their plasma AND a counter for their own armour."

Anderson chuckled, "Fortuitous news indeed. But I'm waiting for the other shoe…"

"We got enough to maybe outfit our boys here, boss," Bradford straightened and approached, "Maybe give the ideas to your friends upstairs. But ammunition may be an issue for consistency. We can't _make_ more alloy. But if we can keep salvaging it… and we'd need a supplier who can get it if we want to expand…"

Anderson leaned his head back and groaned, "Oh bollocks."

"What?"

The colonel ran a hand over his face, "I think I just went and pissed off a potential partner."

* * *

Smytheson sat in his office, stewing. He'd managed to drink away the shakes now. His supervisor, an ageing dullard called Wilberforce Fortescue had just laughed at him when he'd recounted the tale. But the old dodderer had at least clipped the ear of that General who, apparently had collared Anderson. But he still felt… chided.

Unable to relax, he tossed the paperwork back on his desk The correspondence was… not good. Lines of communication with the ports were spotty and he had only intermittent updates from field officers. Last he'd heard from Mumbai was a general SOS. Africa was dark. The West Indies, well, apparently still active and were perplexed by the talk of "invaders". The company was… well it was a relic. But it still held influence. Tenuous. Renamed subsidiaries, old contracts. Business never died… they just reignited like the phoenix of old. Damn that scurrilous Colonel. Didn't he realise officers were supposed to turn to the right and accept things. He'd have ended up with a nice comfortable Directorship if he'd played the wicket. Of course, perhaps he should have opened with that. Most of the other Regimental types flustered but backed down.

He strode down the corridors of the surprisingly small headquarters of the pre-eminent Global superpower. People claimed it was Britain. But the Country had merely stood upon the shoulders of giants.

He emerged to a surprisingly crisp summer afternoon. A fine mist was descending across the street. He was about to step out when a carriage clattered up and skidded to a halt.

A man stepped out. He wore a top hat and had a thin smile.

"Smytheson? Yes? Friend?"

"Excuse me, I do not…"

The gentleman pulled his jacket back briefly revealing a silvery weapon. The man… if it was a man… inclined his head again at an angle that just looked off.

"Join us, yes. For a ride. Yes. We have questions. You will answer. Yes."

"I… I…" Smytheson swallowed and looked up and down the street. No one within earshot and he wasn't sure he'd be able to make a break for it. He exhaled, straightened his jacket and stepped up into the carriage. The tall-man stepped in behind him and the door clicked shut. There was the crack of a whip and the carriage was away, clattering down the street.

* * *

"The East India Company hates us?"

"No… just some rather inconveniently placed upstart We may have to wait a while before securing much in the way of support."

Bradford shook his head and shrugged, "They're a relic. Never liked 'em anyway. Bleed you dry and barely give you anything. Why'd you think we chucked that tea in the harbour?"

"Oh yes… that was theirs wasn't it?" mused Shen. Anderson waved a hand.

"So, we have some promising solutions but a longer term supply problem. For now, let's issue what we can to our standing forces. Doctor Vahlen, can you prepare an advisory document for the British Armourers - if they can at least fabricate a knock-off or emulate to some degree, maybe locally source some shrapnel in the field to jury rig some ammunition at the least, it gives us an edge."

"Of course. We have something else."

"I'm all ears."

"Please… follow me."

They all trouped to from the workshop, across the road to the Hospital. Vahlen led them through antiseptic drenched corridors to the basement morgue cum interrogation room. A Muton had been tied down, via chains and was currently being wheeled away. Vahlen tutted. Anderson blanched slightly at the various protrusions and scars on the creature. Divested of its armour it was still a hulking brute of a thing. Vahlen caught his glance.

"Oh, those? No, those were on it already. Ritual scarring we believe. So, in summary, we have been using a variety of techniques - Shen is quite gifted and I have a number of specialists from the military and who we have… dragooned into service. So far, most of the captives have succumbed to our techniques. And we have quite the treasure trove."

The group settled in in the morgue attendants alcove and Anderson crossed his arms.

"Dare I ask?"

"Pressure points, chemical inducements, low level hypnosis," mused Shen.

"Pain application, direct questioning, some more directed drug administration."

Bradford shuddered, "Don't feel right, torture."

"We do what we must. The Tall-men were most agreeable to discussion. We've got a sort of… cypher of the alien linguistics. Each is fairly curtailed as, it would appear, they are commanded by _psychics._"

Anderson deadpanned, "So we need to round up every carnival show touring the country for collusion?"

Vahlen gave him a withering look, "Not your palm reading _schwindler._ Apparently _tele_-_pathos_. To use the mind to see far distances. This is why their command and control is so unified. It also leads me to surmise their communication devices to not operate in the same way our own _radio_ or telegraph machinery does."

"So, hard to ruddy intercept."

"_Jawohl_. But if we secure a transmitter or receiver or whatever the term is… then we now know what to look for. And this makes seizing one of the glowing beings paramount."

"So, what else?"

"The Alien languages are… stunted. As if they have been curtailed. This suggests that these are not truly independent beings. They are… slaves."

Anderson frowned, "The Tall-men don't act like slaves. No collars."

"Do they need a collar if their masters are a thought away?" interjected Shen. The group gave a collective shudder and Anderson dry washed his hands for a moment. Vahlen continued.

"The Muton was our latest… guest. We believed it to be among the least intelligent of any of the alien species we've encountered. What did surprise us was how much _knowledge_ it actually had. But mostly on the level of muscle memory - it reacted in a sedated state, reassembling a dismantled rifle. This makes sense. Their commanders want an effective soldier. So they provide the Muton with a complete understanding of their weaponry and tactics, as this beast represents their most formidable front-line combatant. So _far._ It was resistant to our techniques, likely due to its limited mental faculties. BUT we've learned a great deal from the captive about the alien weaponry."

"So why show off the elerium…?"

"We can't create their weapons… but this knowledge has advanced our understanding of energy, ballistics, _light_. From such a crude beast. But the core message here is we were able to extract some useful information beyond this. Not just an understanding of weapons; an understanding of the _nature_ of our enemy. Of their soldiers. And of where they _are_."

Anderson leaned forward. Bradford chuckled, "We got three locations from big-tough-and-dead. Resupply bases, where they got funneled through. Got a nice bit of information on their likely disposition around their landing sites too. Defensive formations, fields of fire, that sort o' thing. Got it all sketched up, pretty like."

Shen and Vahlen chuckled as Anderson leaned back, shocked, "Bloody hell. Save this all for a single day, why don't you?"

"Had to be sure, boss. Shen didn't know his stuff'd work, Vahlen wasn't sure she wasn't just confusin' the grunts and pig squeals for info and I had to interrogate the humans. Your Irish buddies are… not too friendly."

"Not bloody surprising. So, is that all?"

Vahlen shifted, "I said slaves. That may not be the right word. They are… I think _bred_ not recruited. All autopsies so far have shown a disturbing uniformity. Brain structure, bone structure, organ shape, weight."

"Well, humans are all much of a muchness on the inside…"

"_Nein_. We have variation. Trust me when I say that, between each… type of beast we have found there is _no such_ variation. They are different from one another across class, but _identical_ at the base level within their groups. So, a weakness in one specimen is likely to be a weakness in all… and further to that, it seems they may have hit another unexpected snag."

"How so?"

"We are undergoing somewhat of a resurgence in diseases in this country. And it would appear our new visitors are not so well equipped to cope."

She stood and walked over to a mortuary rack and hauled open the door. Out slid a metal bed on which lay three curled up grey-monkey forms. Anderson and the others joined her. Anderson gazed at them.

"No bullet wounds. What killed them?"

"Bacteria. Minute, insignificant… bacteria."


	26. Chapter 25

Patterson shivered and pulled the scratchy wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. It wasn't right - late August and nights should be balmy. Not this misty bollocks. In the dark you could barely see more than a few dozen yards into "no-mans-land". The mist clung, soaking damn near everything. Morning brought little respite these past few days, the weak sunlight barely drying anything.- damp clung to everything.

Some were grumbling it was the Martians - their lines far off had belched smoke into the sky, firing rockets into the clouds. White smoke had poured from behind their distant barricades and vanished. The mist had descended a few hours later. It seemed too neat to be co-incidence.

All along the line cooking fires and lamps were dimmed and hidden unter tarpaulins or dug-out little crevices. The earthworks and trenches that formed the bulwark against the invaders was now a muddy, sunken thoroughfare. To the rear, the artillery sat in their neater dugouts, all sandpits and ordered ammunition stacks. They were a little ways back from the main front and further into no mans land were dotted smaller posts - the forward observation points.

But here he sat, on watch for their little section. Watches still needed to be kept all along the line. The bulk of the men hunkered down in rear-ward trenches, or rotated through to the tent camp further back towards Aldershot. Right now, Patterson would've shagged tupn'y whore filled with the clap for a chance to bed down in a tent.

He shifted at his post, a small alcove he'd carved against the earth-work mound and peered over the edge again, straining against the evening gloom. Far across the miles of scorched grass and muddy topsoil he could just make out faint glows where creatures moved and their strange plants had begun to sprout. The damn things glowed in the dark, which seemed a ruddy stupid thing to let sprout near your lines.

But so far no one had actually _seen_ any aliens manning the defences. Now and then a beam of light would sweep across the space and incinerate anything it saw that seemed in any way human. The strange red weed had begun crawling across the desolate space between, much like it had beguin infesting barren crop-lands and the small streams nearby, but the sappers had launched a few incendiary devices to burn it away. Just to be sure it wasn't yet _another_ diabolical weapon out of nightmares.

Patterson stretched his shoulders and grunted. A creaking wooden board made him turn, rifle clutched, "Who goes there?"

"Lovely lad, still on watch eh? Tidy, yes, proper _tidy_." Sergeant Ross, a proper Taff from the Valleys had that sing-song cadence of all Welshmen. It sounded leering, jolly and intimidating all at once. And was all contained in a man five foot nothing with a waxed moustache and a deadly glare.

"Yes, Sergeant, nothin' to report."

"Keep a weather eye out, boyo. Doin' me rounds, checking on the lovely boys and their spit 'n polish. All gleaming smart. Wouldn't want them mucky buggers being all offended at our lack of decorum and bearing now, would we? Cold it is lad, but fight the chill in them bones, keep them peepers peeping, spick and span aye?"

Patterson nodded. Somehow the Sergeant looked well turned out - boots mostly clear of the muck of the trenches, buttons gleaming in the dim light of a covered lantern. The stable belt he wore was practically a beacon of white all on its own. The Sergeant gave him another once over, then continue down the line, pausing to jostle a dozing soldier here, rouse a poker game there. Keeping order. No doubt there was a rupert due any time soon, for whatever good that'd do.

He turned back and looked out over the expanse and squinted. There were lights now, all of a sudden. Not that strange, sourceless spotlight, but almost like new stars in the sky, high up. They were moving. But the ground wasn't rumbling - had the fighting machines learned to creep? His mind whirled - was he imagining it? Stars breaking through a gap in the clouds?

Patterson looked up.

There were no clouds. Mist, yes, low lying. But no clouds above. And these were too large for stars.

He scrambled down and hissed, "Enemy! Enemy lights!"

Roberts, the Corporal, was dozing nearby. He started as Patterson's boot kicked his dozing shin, "What the fuck, mate?"

"Lights!"

"Stars, you…"

"MOVING!"

Roberts scrambled up alongside him. The lights were bobbing. Then suddenly they grew larger and a hum filled the air, accompanied by a strange warbling thrum. They grew and were suddenly above them, then gone.

There was a flash of green and an explosion blossomed to the rear as an artillery magazine caught. The fire fountained up in a mushroom and shocked cries could be heard. Patterson stared, then looked back at Roberts. They paused for a moment then began shouting.

"Alarm! ALARM! Enemy attack!"

Bells were ringing, whistles sounding, all along the line. The sound of Ross' sing song cadence, edged with anger cut through, "Stand ready my boys! To arms! Any sign of the bastards?"

There was another warble and the lights passed over head, stitching a line of green streaks into another artillery emplacement. Patterson could see the night horizon being lit up as more lights droned overhead, too fast to really see, raining fire down onto their guns. He stumbled as the ground suddenly shook and looked back out across the barren space between the lines.

The mist was curling, parting as the dim light reflected off of faint metal outlines, "Fighting machines! Advancing!"

"Canny bastards, knocking out the guns, so their tall-boys can have a crack eh? Well, let's show these bastards we don't roll over like a French fancy my lovely boys!"

The Sergeant yelled orders and men spilled from their bedrolls and cook-fires. Rifle men lay against the earthworks and hunkered down.

Patterson cringed as there was the whining hiss of a heat ray charging. The air suddenly shifted from the nagging cold of the damp and the mist hissed into steam around them. A few men caught jogging down the line were clearly in a vulnerable spot, in line of sight. They sprawled, screaming, heads and torsos steaming and clothes aflame. The mist was good cover, but it seemed to mitigate the more instantaneous impact of the ray.

Small mercy though.

Others ran to their comrades side, dragging the wounded and dying men into cover. Shots could be heard echoing down the line and distant yells as men shouted conflicting commands or directions. There were flashes as heat rays discharged, the night suddenly lit by wood and ammunition catching aflame. The whole front was now a tinderbox waiting to happen.

"Ready my boys, by the numbers! Patterson, you lanky arsehole, grab more ammunition from the depot back, double time now. We'll keep them looking our way. Now jog, you English bastard."

Patterson wasted no time. He broke into a run. Part of him wasn't sure he'd actually head back, but his training and the fear of a proper tongue lashing by the Sergeant spurred him on. He glanced back and blanched as two fighting machines loomed out of the mist a few hundred yards away. They paused and sighted along the lines, firing swiftly. He heard the screams of men caught in the beams. He turned and sprinted towards the depot, a bit further back behind the lines, dug into its own covered trench. Men jostled in the narrow dugouts, pushing forward to the lines, or limping back towards triage medical points.

Patterson shoved his way through and yelled at a dazed looking Corporal to hand him boxes. The man looked about to argue, but saw Patterson's stare. A large crate was hauled from the stack behind him and pressed into his hands.

Patterson staggered and shoved his way back, mud smearing the navy-wool of his trousers, other mens blood splashing against his jacket. He staggered back onto the main run of the lines then tripped and fell. Around him men screamed and the air cooked. Patterson felt his hair singe and eyebrows burn. He pushed his back against the earthworks and stared up as a huge metal beast stomped over the trench like it was a road-gutter. The machine ignored him, advancing past the trenchline, pausing only to resight its heat ray and fire. There was no answering artillery.

He staggered to his feet, ammunition box clutched to his chest and pushed down the line. Men were slumped here and there and the stench of cooked meat filled the air, sickly sweet. Others leaned against the earthworks and trench-sides, firing intermittently at other things out of sight. He heart alien and beastial squeals but the men didn't stop firing, almost frantically loading.

He saw his Company ahead, a thinner collection of men now. Charred husks lay about and the Sergeant now looked disheveled and mudstrewn. Paaterson sprinted up and sagged, slamming the crate to the ground. He yanked his bayonet from his belt and prised open the crate. The Sergeant glanced his way.

"Good job boyo. Let's give these devils what for?"

Patterson unslung his rifle and scrambled up to the trench side. Roberts huddled there and turned his face to his comrade. Patterson flinched back as he saw that the man's face was half melted. Roberts gave him a pained grin and sighed, then slumped down, dead.

Shaking, he Patrick looked over the lip of the trench and stared. Other machines were advancing, spider-like things, carrying large barricades in front of them like shields. Behind them he could make out hulking brutes, advancing under cover.

A _thing_ reared up in front of him and he fell backwards. It had four legs and an upright torso, covered in carapace. It squealed and lunged for him, only to stagger back as a bullet tore into its chest.

"These are _my_ lads, you dirty foreign _bastard_. I'm the only one allowed to rip them a new arsehole," growled Sergeant Ross. He had his rifle held at hip level and was chambering another round. His movements were fluid and practiced. Another round slammed into the monster, "So you can bugger _right_ off to whatever shitty little hovel you call home."

Patterson scrambled back. He saw his comrades staggering, switching targets. Traces of green scattered overhead as the advancing beasts took potshots at the line. He looked about him as the monster was driven back and staggered to his feet. The insect-beast screeched and lunged again slashed at another man who reeled away clutching his throat. Another round brought it down and Patterson found the Sergeant suddenly in his face.

"Get the lads back, get to the colours and do what the Rupert says. Get on now boyo. Not having you trump me here. "

"But sergeant, what…"

The man gestured down and Patteson saw blood staining the watery mud at the Sergeants feet, "Can't ruddy move boyo. And I'm going to go out like a proper man of the Queen. On my feet. Not in some sawbones ruddy charnel house. No get on. Before we get more bloody cock-roaches crawling up our arses. Shift, and get them colours spick and span."

Patterson nodded and yelled a rallying cry, "Fall back, by the numbers! Rally to the colours!"

The soldiers who were still standing staggered back, firing, dropping to a knee to reload as comrades provided cover. Slow and methodical. They dragged themselves down the trenches to the back-lines. Other companies were crying a retreat as well, men swarming back, firing and falling as green bolts lanced the air. A heat ray swept across a bank of trenches and the air filled with the sound of screams and sizzling flesh.

Patterson watched as comrades fell but still they moved. He dragged one man, limping, backwards and halted as they saw the slumped form of one of the spider machines. Corpses littered the trench it was half buried in - aliens and men. A crater had been gouged out of the soil and smoke poured from the wrecked monstrosity.

The troops staggered on, cutting back into another trench line. The aliens had broken into the lines, the fighting machines now pushing to the rear. Distant explosions could be heard, muffled by trench walls and Palisades. Pursuit was constant, shapes lurching over earthworks, or from side trenches filled with corpses. Grey creatures gurgled and lunged, or skittered out of sight, retreating or falling under the fire of the men.

Slowly they were whittled down - a crab-like horror erupting from the soil to drag a man down in a shower of gore; a hulking brute appearing at the top of a trench and shrugging off bullets as it bludgeoned a trooper to death. Pattersons dwindling company made it to a collection of tents and found men struggling with a strange collection of what seemed to be _funeral_ attendants. An officer clashed with one, his sword like quicksilver in the torchlight. The interloper wielded a strange blade covered in pipes; more like a medical implement.

Patterson had gone from fifteen men to three others now. With a bellow they launched into the fray, bayonets jabbing and fists flying. It wasn't a glorious battle; it was a melee in the mud, surrounded by craters and the groans of dying men.

Patrick watched as a man reeled backwards. His eyes were purple and filled with panic as he drew his own bayonet across his throat. Patterson saw a grey thing staring at the man and, in a sudden flash of desperation, hauled himself forwards and thrust with his bayonet. The creature squealed and staggered backwards, collapsing a hastily erected tent about it as it fell.

He turned and saw the officer impale the tall-man, but then stagger as a cloud of green mist exploded from the unearthly man. He starred as the officer sagged and fell to his knees. He saw blood pour from the rupert's eyes and made to head towards him. The man looked up and waved frantically. Patterson recognised him - their new Lieutenant. He saw the man gesture further back, towards the headquarters for the Company and Regiment - where the colours were. Then the man toppled over, dead.

He cast about him and realised he was alone. His comrades lay dead among their foes, locked in the eternal embrace of death.

Bloodied, bruised and running on fading adrenaline, Patrick "Pat" Patterson pushed back. He staggered down shallow trenches as around him fires burned and men shouted to each other in the dark. Alien hoots and shrieks permeated the air and the night lit up with green tracery. Machines clanked on, advancing past the lines, nearly drowning out the heavy tread of alien legions.

Above, lights whirls and took shots at stragglers where the defiant boom of artillery sounded, swiftly silenced by malevolent angels from another world. Patterson watched as trio of rocket-beasts ducked and weaved around a cluster of men, huddling behind makeshift barricades. He hunkered down and watched as one of the beasts tossed a glowing green sphere into the group, the gesture almost contemptuous. There was a green flash an screams abruptly cut off.

He staggered on and glanced up as strange shells whistled overhead, slamming down into distant, bunkered areas. The sound of gunfire from those positions faded and died as black smoke poured out and pooled across what was left of the British defensive line.

He was nearly into the main camp, nearly half a mile from the front itself, back to the foreward headquarters. Ahead he could see more fires. The sound of gunfire. The headquarters still stood, strangely bypassed by the fighting machines as they pressed on towards… Aldershot?

A song caught his ears.

"_...he countenance divine_

_Shine forth upon our clouded hills?_

_And was Jerusalem builded here_

_Among those dark satanic mills?"_

He stumbled forwards, almost blinded by the blood in his eyes. His vision swam as his strength ebbed. He could feel the pain of a hundred tiny cuts and maybe more. But he pushed on.

"_Bring me my bow of burning gold!"_

A creature loomed from an alien firing line - another strangely suited man. Patterson fired and the creature fell, head a tattered mess.

"_Bring me my arrows of desire!"_

He moved forwards into the light and heard a shout over the gunfire. Somehow he made it to the perimeter of stacked boxes and overturned tables. Hands grabbed him and hauled him in.

"_Bring me my spear: o clouds unfold!"_

He saw around him other soldiers - a mix of uniforms and ranks, hunkered behind barricades and passing ammunition. A Colonel stood amidst it all gesturing for reinforcement. Next to him stood the colours of the Regiment, Patterson's regiment. He wasn;t sure if the man was his Commanding officer, so streaked with mud and gore were all the men around him, uniforms covered in soot and soil. The colonel looked at him as around them the men continued the hymn, keeping their spirits up.

"Well done, trooper, getting this far. Any sign of Lieutenant Gregory and the second platoon?

Patterson blinked, "Sorry sir. I'm Third platoon, Second Company. I think… I think I saw my own Ru-Lieuteant… but they got him. No sign of the others. It's a rout at the front, sir."

The Colonel gave him a faintly tired look, "I think we rather gathered that, soldier. Can you fight?"

"Yes sir."

"Good show. Corporal Jameson, give this man some ammunition. Let's try to hold these ne'er do wells a while longer, let the others regroup."

Patterson found himself at another barricade, taking shots at silhouettes in the dark. Large figures loomed but were driven back by a hail of lead. Scuttling figures got a tossed pitard and a blast for their trouble.

The hymn started up again as another wave of creatures pushed forward. Patterson fired, his vision only on targets he could see right in front of him, or in response to called out warnings where he flicked his aim right and left, cracking off rounds as fast as he could re-chamber them.

He looked around and saw the men to his sides were down, a mess of burned flesh. Another man shrieked behind him and shot his comrade before another man stabbed him. More fire came in, a hail of withering green,

"_I will not cease from mental fight;"_

He grappled for another round from his pouch but found it empty. A figure charged forwards - one of the suited creatures. It leapt forward, snake like and Patterson thrust his rifle forward. The creature squealed and tried to dodge, but momentum had it. It slammed into the bayonet and Patterson went backwards. He followed through and the creature passed overhead as his rifle clattered away. It landed hard squirmed and then died, leaking noxious gas around it.

"_Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,"_

Patterson got to his feed and hauled a rifle from the cold hands of a fallen comrade. He scrambled for more bullets and took stock. In the furor most lay dead. He spied the Colonel, slumped over a crate, pistol held limp in his hand. The Corporal lay nearby, his chest a smoking ruin.

"_Till we have built Jerusalem"_

He moved unsteadily as the last gunshots died away, heading for the fallen pole. Carefully, with single-minded determination, Patterson hauled the standard up from the mud. He looked around and saw shapes moving through the gloom. Great creatures, clad in green loomed near the barricades, armour scarred by bullets and shrapnel. The ground shook briefly and Patterson looked up. A fighting machine lumbered closer and clanked to a halt, hissing steam from the shoulder joints near its hood. There was a whirr as the heat ray protrusion levelled itself down at the lone soldier. He stared up at the darkened visor of the machine hood. He hefted the colours above his head and bellowed out.

"_In England's green and pleasant la-"_

The engine fired and heat bathed the ground. The air hissed to steam and flesh broiled. Cloth caught and burned to ash.

Light faded. The collection of aliens turned and moved along. With a whirring hiss, the machine rose and turned West, moving to follow its fellows.


	27. Chapter 26

It wasn't that he was unaccustomed to reveille at an unreasonable hour - it's that he felt he should be entitled to more than just two hours of sleep before people started battering on the door. He'd answered it to find a Corporal with a bandaged head, red in the face, barely coherent, telling him he was needed at the Headquarters in Whitehall.

A rushed fifteen minutes later he was trundling along in a carriage whilst the dim light of early _early _morning filtered over the buildings. He spared a glance out at the packed streets. Down Bywater Street, then Upper Thames street, along the river.

Even at this time of day it was clogged with barges and drifting hulks. Less now than a few weeks ago, but still there. Canal boats were roped together, forming floating islands, sanctuaries from the noisy streets. Or what _should_ have been noisy streets. Canvas tents were strewn and set up in a mish-mash pattern; men and women clustered around braziers and open wood fires. There was a pall of tiredness and a grey tinge to everything. Soot and grime clung to the clothes of the people he saw from the carriage window. People in the crowd parted, listlessly as they rode through.

He saw a man, slouched against a fence, elbows resting on knees. The man was in a suit, dusty from the road. But his eyes seemed vacant, staring into the middle-distance. It was an image repeated as they trundled through Temple, past the crowded park where ever more refugees fought over scraps of space and locals tried their best to avoid them. Children huddled near parents, faces streaked with tears, marking rivulets through the dust on their faces. Dogs snapped and snarled in the streets, then sprinted away as hungry men chased them with sticks.

Anderson shuddered and leaned back. Surely it wasn't so bad that people were hunting _dogs_?

But of course, he was sat in a comfortable mess; the Army would be provisioned first. And that then led to more thoughts - how did a city like London keep on going without the constant stream of coal, meat and perishables? No wonder the martians hadn't attacked - they could likely starve them out given time. They needed a push _now_. Something.

Hopefully that was what this summons was for, despite the ungodly hour.

* * *

The main room in the War Office in Whitehall was a bustle of activity - clerks from all the departments were rushing too and fro, corporals and junior officers likewise headless. Anderson was ushered quickly through the hubbub to the central meeting room. It was a fairly grandiose affair - dark wood panels and a large table, inalid with leather. Maps were strewn across it, with others mounted on stands around the room.

The company gathered within was auspicious - representatives from the Imperial General Staff - Military intelligence, Military Operations; elements of the Adjutant General's staff, medical chaps most likely; the Quartermaster-General's staff were also in attendance. But more worryingly, so was Prince George, all red brocade and expansive grey moustache

General Marter spotted him and approached.

"William, glad you could make it. It's all… rather gone pear shaped."

Colonel Anderson approached the table and looked down at the various markings and projection lines across the maps. He blinked in surprise then looked up at Marter,

"All the way to Andover?"

"It seems so. They attacked three hours ago. Only heard due to some chaps letting pigeons go. And then a Telegram. But seems like they're wise to that little trick too and pulled down the poles."

"My God."

"Who's this Marter? Your pet project?"

That was the Prince. 2nd Duke of Cambridge, Prince George. Field Marshal of the British Army. And absolute bane of creative thinking.

Marter nodded, "Colonel Anderson is seconded to a joint venture, exploring means by which we can counter…"

"Balderdash. He's a bloody nuisance who you sidelined into some… infernal Prussian sponsored scheme. By all rights I should have him marched out of here."

Anderson spotted a familiar face near to the Field Marshal. Colonel Tasseter - the bounder who had been at odds all those weeks ago. No doubt exhibiting fine honour and judgement by trying to kibosh their whole venture. Anderson clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the Prince.

"Indeed, your Highness. However, I would like to request that we donate all materiel seized from our _successful_ operations against the invaders. Seeing as I am sure that the good Colonel Tasseter there is able to furnish you with adequate surplus. I am sure that, if Bismark were sponsoring this little venture that he would be interested and I wouldn't wish for them to gain an advantage."

The Prince bristled and Anderson noted Tasseter's glare, "What? What's that? What could we possibly learn from these heathens?"

General Marter took this opportunity to step in, "Your Highness, Colonel Anderson's team have, to date, struck successful and successive blows against the enemy. We have not seen anything from other units so far. I would also like to remind you that it was Colonel Anderson who rallied the defence of Portsmouth and, arguably, prevent damage to a key military port."

"Codswallop! What rot!" that was Tasseter, "Any of those Jacks on their tubs could've gotten an ounce of sense to aim the guns inland to give them a few hundred pounds of British negotiation."

Marter's stare silenced the man, "Perhaps. But how many vessels would have been docked, unprepared whilst their confounded machines stamped all over them?"

The Prince watched the exchange then focused his grey brown eyes on Anderson, "Well done that man. But I'm not sure I fully endorse what I do hear about your… activities. Chinamen and Boer tactics it sounds like. What are we if we corrupt our methods?"

_Alive_, was what Anderson wanted to say. Instead he nodded, "I completely understand sir. My core command and soldiers are British through and through - men of the Empire. If we pick up volunteers to pad that out, to keep this City, this Country safe, I will, sir, not turn them away. Better to die on one's feet than in the gutter," he gestured to the map, "And we have pressing concerns, sir. My men are at the service of the Empire, the Queen."

The Prince harrumphed and Marter took the opportunity to shift the conversation, "Gentlemen, we all know the events, but let me remind you all. Three hours ago, the invaders pushed through our lines at three key points after deploying a previously unknown asset - flying devices that appear to be able to project firepower. These differ from their previously observed… aviation. These are more flexible than our own limited observation balloons and have an unknown range. At this point, we should consider the entirety of the United Kingdom at risk from the skies."

A mutterring swept the room and men started to gesticulate. Marter held his hands up for silence, but the Prince interjected, "Sound far fetched. Surely some form of artillery, or these supposed walking engines I keep being told about."

Anderson wasn't surprised the man didn't believe in the concept of the Fighting Machine. He was staunch in his opposition to change, to reform. The concept that an enemy could outmanoeuvre or out-think them was alien to the man. Anderson had a sinking feeling in his stomach - he could see how this would play out.

"Sir, we have the reports. For now, we can take them under advisement, but should consider the real possibility that we are at risk."

The Prince looked at him and shook his head, "Frankly, the breakthrough is likely due to poor command and control - a lack of officers of decent standing to inspire the men. Good leadership, Marter, is in the blood and bone. The men are well drilled, we know, so the only flaw could possibly be in their disposition in the field."

The man looked about the room; several infantry Brigadiers shied away from his gaze, a few Colonel's studiously took interest in the maps before them. Marter ground his teeth and huffed under his breath, his own moustache twitching faintly, "We know that our artillery, far behind the lines, was hit _first_. So, if the weapon _is _artillery then its range exceeds even our own heavy guns. Add to that the already-established heat-ray weapon and our infantry in the open field is outmatched. Cavalry have reported success in engaging their smaller deployed elements and being able to outrun the ray in terms of angling alongside lone machines. However, they are insufficiently equipped to engage the machines themselves."

Tasseter piped up, "That has yet to be conclusively proven. My boys in the Dragoons can push through if we attack here and here, infantry drawing…"

Marter slapped the table, "With all due respect, _Colonel_, we are not in an easy position to counter their forces in the field. I have had a report that there have been regroupings to the north and south, but our command and control is limited. If you have a way of easily communicating a strategy to the field, then please enlighten me."

"I have an idea," Anderson was surprised that it was he who was speaking. He looked around at the room. Until now, he'd been a Major, usually just depositing notes into meetings like this before beating a hasty retreat - an "overpromoted tea boy" as he'd once referred to himself as. But that was a Staff HQ for you - like a loop in ones career cycle, reach the top only to find it's the bottom of another pole.

"Speak up man," that was the Prince, a bored expression on his face already.

"There's a wireless Telegram unit in Portsmouth, as well as a Royal Marine Contingent. We could have them move to link up with the Southern line, with the device. Instant communication, allows us to, ah, ensure the men are in the correct dispositions."

The Prince shifted and eyed him then nodded, "Sensible, sensible."

Anderson continued, "I understand that my Adjutant, Captain Bradford, has also delivered an intelligence brief on the layout of their defensive line?"

Tasseter sneered, "Your Colonial lapdog. Or does he hold your le-"

"Oh do shut up, you melodramatic tart," sighed Anderson. The Prince blinked and guffawed.

"He's got you bang to rights Phillip. Pipe down." The Dragoon Colonel reddened but fell into silence.

"So, with those defensive elements, we know where to shell them. Move some artillery into position, hit them, that may spook them into pulling back. A counter attack that means we don't need to engage them in the field."

The Prince frowned, "Sounds like you want to run from a fight, Colonel."

Anderson inhaled, "No sir. But to fight them on _our_ terms. As you say, our men are drilled. But spread out, split across the countryside? We can't engage them very well with our superior ah… training. We hit them in their house, as it were, gives our own men time to regroup and we can bring them to bear. And it even gives Colonel Tasseter a chance for his men to attempt their own manoeuvres."

Marter nodded slowly, "We do know where they've reinforced. Field Marshal, as of now we are playing to their tune and have been defensive in our own country. I propose a move in the other direction. This particular assault seems to be designed to break us, to isolate and destroy our forces."

The officers exchanged glances around the table. Even Anderson shifted uncomfortably. But the Prince nodded slowly, "You think them capable of this, General?"

"Not in its entirety, no, but I know from evidence from our Medical Regiments, Logistical Divisions and so on that our ability to operate has been severely diminished. And the worrying reality is that these invaders seem to offer no quarter, no parley. Sir, we have the reality that London is packed with refugees, our supplies are failing and our ability to rearm has been stymied by the loss of the North."

The Prince glowered and shifted, "We have no-"

"No word for over a week, no ability to establish communication, no new refugees for several days. Sir, if it is not lost, then it is misplaced in a way we cannot ascertain. Our ability to wage an engagement depends on our ability to leverage."

The older man gave a grunt and nodded, "I concede the point."

Marter nodded in return, "I believe we should expand on Colonel Anderson's nascent idea. Take advantage of our strengths and push the enemy into an engagement on our terms - we do need to learn the lessons of the Boer War. And the Zulu war."

The conversation went on, stilted, awkward, as politics laced with planning. The Prince was averse to _dramatic_ tactics, or divergence from established methods. Every suggestion had to be couched in terms he was content with; Cavalry as the spear to sweep away the enemy; a refusal to quite engage with the reality of the threat of the Fighting Machine; a discomfort with the reality of the casualty projections trotted out by the medical and ordinance representatives.

Tasseter had delivered another barb, asking where Anderson would be throughout. He'd smiled and said "Wherever needed. And you? In the fray I trust?"

The man had bristled and demanded the Dragoons be put in one of the more advantageous striking positions in the south… provided their little corps of Marines was able to round up the regrouping troops across Hampshire. Rendezvous points were all well and good, but most planning only had two contingencies. The speed at which the Martians moved meant they were having to draw fallback lines in pencil.

As they were leaving, after several hours of intensive planning and less intensive arguments, Anderson had been called to a halt. The Prince hadn't looked up as he'd delivered the line.

"Of course, we'll need to requisition your men for this, Anderson. And I doubt we'll need what your little mad house is cooking up either."

He'd swallowed and frowned, "Sir?"

The Field Marshal, 2nd Duke of Cambridge looked up and gave him a faint nod, "You've done well considering. But we need British brawn and determination for this. Your idea is sound, but all hands to the pump, what. I'm minded to let you keep the rank, though, despite your lack of… inherent connection. We'll find a spot for you hereabouts. Training, perhaps. I'm sure there's a desk spare these days."

The man gestured and turned his attention back to the map. Marter glanced over and Anderson saw a look of indecision and confusion on the man's face - no immediate help there. Sounded like Britain was in the process of abandoning the project… which was akin to pulling the bottom 7 from a house of cards. Anderson gave a crisp salute to the oblivious room and marched stiffly out. The smug, self satisfied grin on Tassters face stuck with him until he was outside in the fresher air.

The sun was over the buildings now and the city was more awake; it never really slept. Butchers, bakers, stallsmen, even in Whitehall you could hear the clatter of carts and the sound of mercantile industry.

The signs of refugees and the crisis gripping the nation were muted here; no wonder the absolute nincompoop of a Field Marshal was skeptical. Anderson sagged as he clambered up into the carriage. It trundled back towards the Tower and he stewed all the way.

He stepped down as it passed into the main courtyard of the Tower keep then stalked towards the mess. He was halfway towards reaching for a bottle when he stopped himself and drew a breath.

That would _not_ help.

He turned at a cough. A corporal, the same one from that morning, head still bandaged. He held an envelope in his hands, which he passed to the Colonel. Anderson unfolded it and read:

_William,_

_Apologies for the informal note. A reminder that we require all __able-bodied __men, as per your __nominal roll_ _to report to their relevant Regiments or to the Horse-guards Barracks for deployment and mustering by 6 of the clock tomorrow._

_Have spoken with HRH DOC - you are to remain in command of the Compound at the Tower as a bastion rearguard. All other __volunteers_ _and __injured soldiers_ _are under your care and __disposition__, again as per __nominal roll__._

_I understand there are several matters you need to __pursue_ _before we can close down the function. I have explained and __signal__ed that you be allowed to __investigate_ _these things before being reassigned._

_Yours sincerely_

_Richard_

Anderson was about to ball up the paper and throw it into the fireplace but he paused. Then he chuckled.

"Corporal. Go find Bradford. And fetch me the nominal roll for the EXALT personnel lists, if you would… chop chop now, time is of the essence."


	28. Chapter 27

Subterfuge wasn't his preferred methodology, but time spent in the Colonies and working alongside various quartermasters, local dignitaries and with various merchant representatives had taught him that expediency and negotiation were key; the odd lapse or blind eye helped to grease the wheels and as long as no one was hurt, no one's salary docked and no equipment lost then, frankly, he could tolerate some little "peccadilloes" for the men.

This was a different level. And yet he didn't feel _too_ much guilt. The situation seemed to usurp those objections.

What was interesting was how easily Bradford had taken to it, mugging gamely as Anderson had laid out the situation as tactfully as he could. Shen had materialised along with Vahlen. The China-man had offered the explanation that he had "so many local boys" under his purview that he couldn't keep track. He'd then helpfully shown his particular skill at double book keeping and shifting various lines imperceptibly across paperwork. Anderson had known the man was, to put it bluntly, a criminal, but the speed and swiftness of the forgery and the juggling of the accounts was alarming.

And _oh so_ useful.

Vahlen had simply stated that any gentlemen wishing to utilise her seconded guards would have to have "words" with her. And she simply said "they are also welcome to try to take our prisoners with them. Or shoot them. But let's see them to to get at them first". Her particular cell block (that they'd co-opted from an empty warehouse next to the hospital) was a fortress in and of itself - chains, extra walls, simple cages within cages. And all the occupants suitably sedated before… processing.

That last fact still sat ill with Anderson; but he had to acknowledge the necessity to a point. The Muton were pretty much un-cageable without severe resource expenditure, so had to be… what was the word she'd used… _euthanised_ immediately after interrogation.

The others, as long as you disarmed them and gagged them (in the Tall-Men's case) were easier. The grey ones they'd realised could manipulate thoughts on a low level _somehow_ after a guard nearly unlocked a cell in a blind panic. However, a mild sedative or strong aromas appeared to disrupt their power; as well as metal caps on the creatures themselves.

They'd practically re-written most of their standing manpower within an hour, ensuring the rear-echelon personnel were accounted for with only minimal losses to the "conscription"; front line was trickier, but they managed to lump many under spurious injuries or ill-defined maladies of "alien origin". And then Bradford played a blinder.

"It's a shame these orders came in just after we'd sent the boys out on that mission, y'know?"

The group had stared at him and grinned. Anderson had nodded solemnly, "True, orders getting written up later, lost. Don;t we need to get some supplies after them? They clean forgot them."

Bradford nodded theatrically, "Of course! What a _buffoon_. I best get down there, sort that out, right Shen?"

The old man had nodded as well, "Quite right. We best get Zhaojie after them with more of a contingent. Just in case. Where were they going again?"

Anderson glanced at their situation board, which now had pinmarks for the suspected transmitter locations. One in London, buried now, one in Cornwall and one in…

"Newcastle. Best get a ship sorted, think they went by.. Barge? Takes a good day up the coast. Be quick about it."

The men filed out, with several aides glancing at the planning group with puzzlement. But the clerks knew better and just carried on with pinning new reports up and sifting through documents and marking maps. Vahlen sighed and cocked her head at Anderson.

"You seem to be enjoying this, _Herr_ Anderson?"

"And why not, Doctor? We're on the knife edge, stymied and stuck. Pinned to the proverbial board by the ineptitude of our betters. And yet… where does a man truly find his spirit in the fight, but those last dregs when he sees clearly."

She arched an eyebrow, "_Der Fisch stinkt vom Kopf her! _It is the way of all things where men seek glory or enrichment, _Ja_?"

"Perspicacious as ever, my dear Doctor. Have you had much headway with your own projects? Shen's weaponry and your assistance there buys us time in the field, but we need progress elsewhere."

The Doctor huffed and gave a sing song sigh,"We are getting an understanding of their particular… heat weaponry. Large amounts of power, mostly electrical in nature. But we are not able to replicate these things as yet. The power draw would be more than all the power plants in England currently could manage for a single shot."

Anderson ran a hand through his hair. He knew it was greying now, due to this damnable kerfuffle, "So we stand no chance? We can't meet them toe to toe?"

Vahlen shook her head, "We cannot _build_ their weapons. I did not say we cannot _use_ them," her grin was mischievous, an expression he hadn't seen before. It was both entrancing and alarming at the same time, "Now, if your men could stop blowing the weaponry up, I am confident we can understand how to make use of them more effectively, like your friend Wells."

"That's what I like to hear. What do you need?"

She gave a shrug, "More weapons. Intact. A fully functioning _kriegsmaschine_."

"The broken one not enough?"

"_Nein_. The various gears and arrays were too _kaputten_ to be of use, but I have an understanding of the armour, makeup and interface. And… maybe how those strange little grey things are able to control others."

Anderson blinked, "Excuse me?"

"How do you think I understood how to _block_ them? No, nothing we can use offensively… but give me time. I have ideas, my good Colonel."

"Thank you Doctor, now…"

A Corporal stepped up and coughed, "Sir, we have a visitor. At the main gate. He's.. asking to meet with you."

Anderson sighed and nodded to Vahlen, "Apologies Doctor. I will come find you later for a full debrief. Duty calls."

She gave a small smile and nodded, "Likely another of your toy soldier friends wanting another favour? _Bis bald_ Colonel. Best of luck."

She departed and Anderson turned to the soldier, "So, who has deigned grace us with their presence."

Name of… Smytheson I believe sir? Says it's of the utmost importance and that he wanted to take you up on your offer."

* * *

The man stood at the gatehouse, next to a shiny black coach. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and eyed Anderson as he approached. The Colonel had taken the time to ensure his uniform was properly set - boots gleaming, belt shining, tunic straight. He gave the East India rep a once over and nodded.

"Mr Smythson. I wasn't expecting you. And you come alone?"

The man ducked his head briefly and slicked his black hair back. He looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep since Anderson had seen him last. The fellow's eyes looked sunken, uncertain. But when he spoke, it was with the same confident assurance he'd had at the Opera house, albeit with a twinge of… sincerity?

"Colonel, first off I would… like to apologise. I overstepped my bounds. My current _employers_ wanted me to make amends. And to take you up on your offer. And if I can lend any assistance, then you have but to ask."

"And what assistance can a near bankrupt business with an army put to the four winds and various vulture investors do for us?"

Smytheson gave a tight smile, "We peel a label off and reveal the new jar beneath, my good Colonel. The Company may be another line in a ledger in Parliament's chase for monopoly but we have other investors, other _sponsors_ and assets to call upon."

The Colonel eyed him and nodded slowly, "Quite. So, the question is then still _what_ you can do beyond vague promise. I've had enough of that from our mutual friends; they at least came through with tangible results."

"Manpower, mobilisation, logistical deployments and auxiliaries for the defence of… wherever you need them. I have been asked to liaise with you. I hope to… make amends."

Anderson shrugged, "Well, what's one more liaison in a crowded room. I think, first off, I did say a tour did I not? To show you what you're getting you and yours involved in?"

"I think I have… some idea. But please, Colonel. I'm all ears."

The man gestured to the driver of the coach who whipped the horses into a trot. It vanished up the cobbled road to the main street near Trinity Park gardens and then turned to head into the City. Smytheson gave a small bow and fell into step with Anderson as they withdrew back into the Keep of the Tower.

"Right now I can't exactly bring you into the command centre. But I think we can have a look at some of the less… classified areas."

"Happy to help, Colonel. It'd be useful to just get an understanding. Where we can best shore up defences, help with shortfalls. Understand where the war effort needs the help."

"And what do you and yours get out of it?"

"Favours, potential contracts down the line. Credit lines with government departments. Really, all we want is an _in_, Colonel. A way to the top table. To survive. And we won't do that by short-selling the winning team, eh?"

Anderson gave the man a sideways glance, "I admire your pomp, sir. Quite the turnabout."

Smytheson hung his head again, "I will admit sir, my dander was up. I thought my position was akin to a chess match with a dullard. And when you look at the majority of the Ministry Staff Officers, can you blame me? Well, you can. But I was reminded by… _superiors_… that the path to riches is from humility. Such says the good book, eh?"

"Something about the meek, I believe."

"Indeed. We are all _Chosen_ at different times. And I hope to be in a position to effect true change, to turn the war. I was never soldiering type, as you can imagine. I thought the age of war had passed and we were in the age of commerce. Well, turns out I was wrong."

Anderson had a nagging suspicion, but dismissed it. The man was a businessman, a merchant. They weren't all snakeoil and painted bars. But they did all talk with that faintly vague air of appropriated glory and with an eye to some future goal of wealth. He led the man to the grounds of the keep and gesture around.

"Our main military distribution centre. Marter I believe has given you and yours a vague understanding of the nature of our operation. We're undergoing some changes. But let's meander across the bridge. I think you'll get a proper dose of salts seeing what we have there."

* * *

It was cruel. But then he had promised the man a revelation. Watching the man shrink back as a Muton crashed against the bars of its cage did raise a faint smirk, but it wasn't as satisfying as he'd thought. But he'd never really been the sort to find petty cruelty gratifying.

He'd given the man a vague "surface" tour of the facilities south of the river - a look in on Vahlen's rooms, then to her little menagerie. That had been a seeming awakening, though the chap had been a bit underwhelmed by the Tall-men. Of course, the creatures were almost human-like. You only saw the _otherness_ when fighting the bloody things.

It was something to ponder, though - would this nonchalance last when the enemy was at the proverbial door; many of the well to do in London were struggling to comprehend that there was a war on, let alone the nature of the combatants. Perhaps he should round up all the officers and ministers and drag them down here, let them see for themselves the reality they faced.

Next up he'd given the man a quick showing of Vahlen's _other_ end of the process. That had induced some vomiting. And then onto more tangible fare with a glimpse at the Workshops - not the deep dark ones at the centre of Shen's little Empire of Metal, but the tailors, the metalsmiths at the fringes of the arches - the weapon upgrades closest to comprehension.

They'd adjourned back to the Mess in the Tower; the walk across the bridge had afforded Anderson the chance to take note of the pair of barges setting out from a pier, tarpaulins bound atop them, movement faintly visible beneath. That was _one_ issue dealt with at least then. Two birds, one stone. Tasseter wouldn't be happy; the Prince would probably not care all that much if Marter was able to interject subtly. Now, he'd have to see if he got yanked to the front to see it first hand - he wouldn't put _that_ past some in the know to try to free up his position.

Bloody politics.

And now here he sat, facing the pale-faced businessman. Smytheson looked thoughtful. Anderson just sat back and waited. Eventually the man spoke.

"Quite the circus, Colonel. I feel you've only let me scratch the surface."

"Of course. Military operation. You're a civilian. A Contractor, of sorts. And we don't want you scampering off with our little secrets just yet. Especially after your prior.. .demands, shall we say?"

The man's smile was sickly, guilty, "Quite, quite. So, a show of good faith perhaps? I am not expecting the keys to the city, of course. But I would argue that we work best with mutually beneficial co-operation. To lend assistance I need to know where you _need_ assistance?"

They were struggling for men, of course. And materiel. And food. God above, damn near everything. This felt almost _too_ serendipitous. But one couldn't be paranoid all the time; and the Council seemed to know this chap, oily though he was, "Supplies, primarily. Secure us a line from your stockhouses. An additional Company of men if you can scrounge any from your… relabelled contacts as you so finely put it. I fear the city may require defence. I can have my second liaise with their commander, see about reinforcing lines. Then we shall see about sharing further."

Smytheson nodded, "I will do what I can. Thank you for taking this chance, sir. I hope to fulfill my investor's wishes on this and ensure we have a beneficial relationship. And to live up to the expectations of me, beyond what I set out at our initial meeting."

_Odd way to put it. But he's an odd man._ Anderson nodded, "Well, let us see how we go then. Your health, sir."

"And yours, Colonel."


	29. Chapter 28

The journey up the coast was cramped, uncomfortable and, most of all, _cold_. It didn't feel right, being as it was late August - the weather should have been balmy, even a mile off the shore. David glared at the sky and shivered, pulling the greatcoat tighter around himself. The cloud cover was thick and grim. Seemed the weather was shifting towards the colder end of things these days.

He'd heard some of the pencil-necks talking about it as he had been shuttled between the Tower and the various departments that had been garrisoned in Tooley Street and around the Hays Wharf and Railway arches. The strange organisation he'd found himself part of seemed to have cordoned off a good portion of Bermondsey and locked it down.

And now here he was, on a bloody steamship heading to _Newcastle_. He'd never been further north than _Barnet_. And now he was off to some northern port. He was beginning to regret finagling himself into this mission.

But Bradford had dragged all the soldiers together, gave them a bit of a "nudge nudge wink wink" brief on how injured personnel would be retained and "fit and able" men would be sent back to support some sort of operation. The Sergeants had clearly been in on whatever the joke was and had doled out bandages or briefed men on their new "injuries". HE'd just been grabbed by a tall Chinese bloke and hauled onto the barges heading down the Thames. Seemed they'd assumed his head injury was also one of the "fake ones" and by the time they'd realised he did have an actual scar the present NCOs had just laughed and given him a thumbs up. He hadn't a clue what'd happened to the sods who'd been sent back for this _other_ op. Part of him felt a sense of relief. As if… as if there was a great sense of dread piling up behind his eyes. His mind was telling him that nothing but death awaited them in the West.

It was akin to having another person's thoughts in his head. He couldn't shake the feeling. But those thoughts carried memories of a young woman; sad and lost, trapped in her wheelchair. Far away.

He wasn't a romantic type, always ready with a quip or some outlandish idea. Some parsons wife? That was a concept he couldn't mold his personality to just yet. But he'd felt some strange desire to just… keep her smiling. He'd had a sweetheart before, in Clapham. Bessie. Or was her name Liz? Either way it hadn't lasted. Or had lasted until her father had chased him off with a fire poker. A few girls in the garrison towns, some lingering kisses in the dark. But nothing as much as seeing her in that dress, staring defiance at the Martians, fighting with all her will to protect that Parson, despite his madness.

"You are lost in thought?"

He turned and saw the tall Chinese man standing at the rail next to him. The fellow wasn't like any of the other Chinese he'd met - burly, imposing. Not the sort to fade into the background or offer you a sniff of opium this one. David shivered again.

"Just uh, y'know, wondering about what the 'ell we're doing up here."

"You were told."

"Yeah yeah. Get into Newcastle, secure some building, find some weird thing and see if we can bring it back. But what _for_?"

"Soldiers follow orders, do their duty, no?"

David gave the man a sidelong look, "Lots of soldiering experience, mate? One to salute and do whatever any old rupert decides is a good idea?"

The man rumbled a chuckle, "I am a soldier, after a fashion. We all have masters. Mine got there by perhaps more merit than yours. But you need to answer the question."

"We do. But as my dad said, only thing that grows in the dark that's fed on dog-shite is mushrooms. Us lot, we get… fidgety if we don't know _why_. A shiny sovereign only buys you so much beer after all."

"A cause then? Not the pay?"

"Money going to be much good in all this? Think we're beyond standing a pint for your mate these days. You didn't see what it's like in the shires. Dog eat bloody dog. Makes you wonder if it's worth it when the bastards you're supposed to help will knife you or turn a woman over for a swift one just because they can get away with it."

The man nodded, "Principles are good. Hold onto them, Mr Essex."

David shot him a look and the man extended a hand, "Zhaojie Zhang. A pleasure. I will be your Loo-ten-ent for this little beach jaunt."

David shook Zhaojie's hand, nonplussed. A cough made them both turn and David saw a diminutive Chinese woman with sharp features standing nearby. She was wearing functional clothes - trousers with leather greaves and gauntlets. She also seemed to be wearing some sort of _armour_ \- looked light and made out of… pottery? It looked like it had a glaze on it. A long rifle was slung over her back, one of those Afghan ones.

"The Sergeant would like to run through the plan, _Zhu_."

"Thank you Jiayi. Mr Essex, can you rouse your fellows Corporals. We will need to brief the men in detail shortly. Another hour before the sun is lower and we are presented with… options."

* * *

The Chinaman wasn't wrong. They'd approached from the south and, through the fading light they could see the nearly completed piers of South Shields and Tynemouth. The weather was becalmed today, but the clouds promised a storm soon.

The steamer had made it up the coast unchallenged, not even seeing other shipping traffic. As they approached, the crew and soldiers could see that the lighthouse on the Tynemouth peer was dark.

"That don't bode well," grumbled the Captain of the steamer. Sergeant Hackett stood next to him and shook his head slowly.

"No it bloody don't. Any way we can just park the boat on the beach?"

The Captain stared at him and shook his head, "You… you bloody _pongo_. Park.. park the bloody _ship_/"

Hackett regarded him steadily, "Sorry, I should have said wreck, right?"

The Captain grumbled and gestured to the piers, "Get past them, serviceable dock in the Royal Quay, half a mile inland. Could try Northshields, but it's fishing boats and not sure we'd be secure. The Quay is better docks."

The Sergeant nodded, "Reckon it's safe though?"

"Safer than bloody ramming the ship up the buggering beach."

"Done squabbling?" Zhaojie stepped into the wheelhouse and glanced at the two men.

"Robust exchange of opinions, sir," chuckled Hackett, "Dock inland. But means getting on the Tyne and making ourselves more… visible. Could we anchor and put ashore?" The Captain shot him a look and Hackett shrugged, "What, I get _some_ of the lingo. Could we?"

The Captain nodded, "Yeah, need to use the lifeboats and you'd be more limited. It's getting back. Storm hits, I can't be sat out here otherwise you're walking back south."

Zhaojie nodded, "So, put ashore. We head inland, secure the dock and then summon you in to moor up?"

"Sounds like a ghost of a plan, sir," nodded Hackett. Zhaojie grimaced.

"We know not their dispositions, placement or defences. And with that storm we will need to move quickly. Sergeant, get the men prepared and what weaponry we can carry onto the boats. Captain, take us in close as you can north of these piers. We'll put ashore on the beach. Then, bring your vessel into the river. That should provide some cover. We will secure and get your moored soon."

The two other men exchanged glances but nodded. Zhaojie swept out and began shouting orders to a few of the visible soldiers on the deck. The Captain chuckled, "Sharp man that. For a Chink-"

Hackett spun and glared at him, "Don't finish that sentence, Captain. I've seen that bloke put people in the ground faster'n you can blink. And he has tried to keep my lads breathing."

The Captain nodded slowly, "All right, keep your shirt on."

Hackett left the cramped bridge and descended to the steamers deck. The boats were being prepped and lowered. It looked like they had enough to get thirty of the men ashore, which left another twenty aboard ship. It seemed Colonel Anderson had been keen to give them options and had sent nearly half of the men up here, keeping most of the "injured" in London. Some sort of shenanigans were at play, but he recognised it as the usual inter-officer politics.

Zhaojie turned to him, "Stay aboard ship. We'll signal with a flare - red for unsafe, green for secured. You see red, hold for an hour and then head back south to report failure."

"Not long…. You won't easily make it back."

Zhaojie shook his head, "We will likely be trying to inflict as much harm as we can. So you can return without them suspecting more men are coming. If we fall at this first fence, as the Irish say, then we will not make it into Newcastle itself."

Hackett sighed, "Alright sir, whatever you say. But If we're close to, we may still give it a good show. I'd rather not sit back in London to get whittled away, you know?"

"But a senseless charge? That is for your own officers to order, yes?" Zhaojie gave a lopsided grin and Hackett chuckled. The Chinaman gave a mock salute and climbed down the cargo netting into one of the waiting boats. The steamship began to slow as it passed the northern pier. From here they could make out scorch marks against the side of the lighthouse. There was the rattle of chain as the ship moved closer to shore, then dropped anchor. A splash followed as the life-boats then lowered themselves into the water proper. Oars sloshed and the smaller boats made for shore. Shielded from the worst of the waves by the steamship. Hacket watched them go, then turned to the rest of the men.

"Right, you 'orrible lot. Kit check on the remaining heavy weapons and rifles. Supply inventory. Corporal, I want a watch roster re-done for when we get this tub in that bloody dock. Get to it lads, lively now!"

They all scampered off and he adjusted his belt, then headed back to the cramped warmth of the bridge. Time to get the tub into the lee of those piers…

* * *

The life-boats crunched against the grainy sand of the beach and men jumped out, splashing and grunting as they hauled the laden craft ashore. Zhaojie leapt out and waded the last few yards to shore, dragging one boat almost by himself, his maxim gun held over one shoulder.

The rest of the men moved inland and took up firing positions on the dune-line, whilst a pair of sailors pulled the boats up the beach, out of the way of the tide line.

Thirty men, a mix of British rifles, winchesters, shotguns, another maxim gun and one of the steam-cannons. They also had grenades, and at least half of the men had that new "plate" armour they jokingly called it. The rest wore the leather over-armour and had abandoned the red-coats of the normal army for darker colours. That had been an order from the Colonel - something about "Boer" tactics. Jiayi had asked why they were using wild pigs as a model and Zhaojie had had to explain that particular political issue to her.

The large Chinaman fished out a folder map and peered at it. He dropped the maxim gun to the sand and pulled out a compass, checking the bearing, then beckoning Jiayi over, "Take two men, scout due east for two hudnred yards, then south for a further fifty. Hold position and signal with your lamps back to us."

She nodded and moved to the troop line, tapping the shoulders of two other men. They moved quickly and followed her, moving carefully over the dune line towards a bunched collection of houses - Tynemouth, or Allard as the map called it. The ground here was chalky but open and sheep grazed idly about, undisturbed. The village had no lights lit and Zhaojie wanted to circle it if possible.

They waited and watched as Jiayi and her scouts checked the edge of the low cluster of buildings. Zhaojie saw a flash of distant green - her shielded lamp with a green paper filter - showing clear. He waited long and saw the same small flash further to the south. Still clear.

"Corporals, extend line, move slowly and carefully."

The troops nodded and advanced. The sailors had joined them, carrying rifles handed to them aboard ship - there was no point staying with the boats - they carried their supplies with them. Ammunition and meagre water and rations.

The advance inland was slow and deliberate. Allards Lounge was deserted, or at least appeared to be. They moved further West toward North Shields, crossing a double track railway, following it southward until the were at the edge of the town. This urban sprawl was larger, but again more of a fishing locale. Slums and small shacks could be seen from their vantage, clustered along the riverbank. A steep rise was topped by grander houses, with the railway line pushing to their rear. They could see the sprawl was mainly terraces.

"Same story, different place," Zhaojie heard a soldier grumble.

"True. But the smell of rotten fish still rises," he retorted. A quiet chuckle rippled along the line.

They moved along the line, carefully, but paused as Jiayi and her scouts approached, breaking from a bank of trees near the edge of the sidings. She hunkered down next to Zhaojie as the troop formed a defensive ring off the side of the tracks using the verge as cover.

"What did you see?"

"People there, but…. They're… well they're wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Standing still, or just lying in the street."

Zhaojie frowned, "We go around the town."

She nodded, her face troubled. Had the aliens ignored the place? Attacked it but left the corpses as decorations or warnings? Or something else?

They cut around the north of the town, ignoring the seemingly untouched buildings. It lengthened their journey by a large margin, but there was something foreboding about the ghostly quiet. Not even songbirds sang as the sun sank lower. The troop moved carefully and slowly through the fields and paddocks, then cut south across scrub-land. There was scant cover, save the odd patches of tall grass. The terrain was rough, pock-marked with rabbit holes and undulating tufts of earth and grass. Zhaojie heard a curse from a soldier as he stumbled in the gathering dark, "_Effin babies-heads…"_

Rechecking his map, using the faint light of his shielded lamp, Zhaojie realised they'd have to cut through the western edge of North Shields, Chirton, to get to the Quay. Any further west and they'd be closer to Newcastle by any stretch. He conferred with the Corporals and they decided to risk it.

The lack of light from anywhere was unnerving, pushing their surroundings to near-pitch blackness; above, the stars glinted clearly. As they moved into the town, the low buildings seemed to press down on them.

Zhaojie called a halt at the first junction between streets. Dark shapes were slumped on the ground, but there were fewer bodies than expected. He gestured to the nearby houses, "Quick sweep. We may need to fall back and if this is a secure location, better to defend from cover."

The troop hunkered down against the edge of a terraced row, spreading out across the junction. Silence reigned here. At least out near the beach, or on the common there'd been sheep; their low bleating a reassuring sign of _some_ life.

The scouts returned, reporting nothing, just deserted homes. The troop continued south, past serried rows of darkened houses. The men trod carefully, stepping over slumped forms, or piled stacks of strange webbing.

They made good time down the darkened roads and found themselves crossing the rail-line again. More terraces, empty as the others, shops with broken frontages and abandoned carts were their only notably shifts in scenery. A short distance beyond that, they found the edge of the quay. A large open space, laid over with gravel and stone, with cuttings for larger ships to berth. They could see, even in the dark, the pontoons marking moorings at the edge.

"Plenty of space. Open ground to observe advances. But likewise obvious." murmurred Zhaojie. He felt a tap on his arm and glanced down at Lance Corporal Essex. The man spoke in a whisper, which still seemed loud in the stillness.

"Yeah, but see them other boats? Still a few moored up. Seems like not everyone was able to scarper. Harder to stand out if you're in a crowd, right?"

Zhaojie nodded and patted the man on the shoulder, "Good. Let us move in and check then."

The group was about to shift onto the flats when Jiayi hissed a warning. The ground rumbled faintly and every man and woman in the group flattened themselves into cover - behind carts, next to a buildings' edge. Off in the distance, south of the river, a tall silhouette moved. A single fighting machine lumbered in a curving motion, a searchlight sweeping the ground in front of it. It was a good two miles distant and seemed to be ignoring the cluster of buildings north of the river. The troop watched as the machine paused and hissed steam out from its joints. The mechanical nightmare raised up and let out a hooting bellow:

**Uuuuulllallaaaaaaaa!**

There was a pause as the sound rent the night air. Then another call answered, further west, fainter. Another, this time from the south. Silence fell again as the distant machine hissed and rumbled. Then, with a juddering _clang_ the tripod turned and headed back inland, lumbering along, sweeping the searchlight in front of it.

No one moved for what seemed an age, until the ground stopped vibrating and the sound of steam and clanging metal was but a distant echo.

"This complicates things." muttered Zhaojie. Essex stepped closer.

"The flares?"

"I had expected some resistance, something we could overcome, or maybe locals still alive. Fighting machines are a risk. A flare could draw them to us."

"So… we may need a distraction while the boat is coming in?"

Zhaojie sighed, "Maybe not. They seem to be south, unconcerned with the northern banks. That troubles me too. Let us carry on. If we are swift, the enemy may not notice before it is too late. We need to secure the steamship and at least have an avenue to retreat."

"Yeah, I may have joined the army, but bugger marching back to London."

The troop fanned out again and advanced over the flat of the quay, heading to the mooring docks. Other hulks drifted on the tide, tied up and secure. An idea was forming in Zhaojie's head as he looked at the collection of trawlers, ferries and odd fishing boats moored up.

The men moved in and boarded a boat, some sort of cut down sailboat, sweeping for anyone living or dead. At the clear, Zhaojie had a soldier move up the river bank to the north and light the flare. He watched as a green streak shot into the sky, but shielded his eyes before the burst.

There was a pause, then an echoing cry in the distance. But not the call of a fighting machine.

It was an inhuman wail. A screech that sound like a cry of pain and fury. A sound that came from a hundred throats. In the distance came the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood, carried on the silent air. The soldiers exchanged glances. Zhaojie looked around, then at the boats.

"Stand to. I fear we have enemy approaching."


	30. Chapter 29

The dwindling light made things harder to see, but not impossible. The night was bright with a clear moon and stars, showing the open ground of the quay in stark, monochrome relief. Torches and lanterns were doused as the men took up positions on the beached boats.

They could hear the distant _huff huff_ as their steamer chugged from a mile away, meandering. But their attention was transfixed by the movement over by the buildings lining the quay, as well as the road and scrub to the North west.

Silhouettes stumbling and sprinting from the dark, tumbling down embankments, scrambling towards them.

"Are they running from something? Civvies?" muttered a soldier, fidgeting with his rifle.

Another grunted his response, "Well, they've given our position away, bloody Martians'll be on us and make a ruddy roast."

Zhaojie watched the charging mass. It was strange - there was a low level _growl_ filling the air. But now shouts, or protests. He could make out, even at this distance, in the dark, the tumbling and shoving, but he couldn't hear the normal shouts you'd expect from the crowd. His jaw tightened as he made a decision.

"Rifles, by the numbers. First volley over their heads. I want them to stop."

The men glanced about and one Corporal frowned, "Sir?"

"That was an order."

"Sir."

The NCOs turned to their sections, "By the numbers, one, two, three…"

The riflemen worked like clockwork. A second later there was a loud _crack_ as twelve rifles barked. High. White smoke drifted in the night air. But the mob kept coming, not even faltering. All that happened was the entire mob _veered_ heading directly at the ship the riflemen were on, crowding together as they made a bee-line for it. Zhaojie cursed.

"_Yao…_ ready, second volley. Flanking vessels! Any ramps or ladders, haul to!"

Men scrambled to pull up the ramps and gangplanks, as well as any rigging hanging over the side. Two of the trawler ships were sat in high dock, on pontoons, not even in the water. Zhaojie's boat was sat in a lower dock, meaning the rail was a scant four feet above the line of the dock-side. The lower dock itself was just a hull-shaped pool cut into the quay, meaning the riflemen were crowded at the prow of the squat vessel. Not great firing arcs.

"Spread out, rifles to high-ground, carbines and shotguns to the fore. Steam gun, maxims, atop the wheelhouse, get to it!"

Men scrambled,as the first wave came into proper view.

They were human. Except humans didn't have boils that glowed in the low light. Humans didn't trail dust and flakes of flesh. Humans didn't maintain a manic sprint whilst growling. And humans didn't tumble, roll and keep coming like this mob did. It was like watching a flock of birds, flowing as one, moving even with shoving and stumbling.

The rifles fired again and the creatures fell. One hit the ground hard and seemed to _burst_ into a cloud of black dust. Others pinwheeled and collapsed, moving only as those following trampled them.

Three hundred yards, the mob closed in. Another volley felled them, and another. The carbines opened up at two hundred yards. Any misgivings about firing at civilians faded as the _things_ drew near. Men, women, even child-sized creatures, sprinted forwards, vaulting over their fallen, tumbling, moving with insect like skittering and jinking flexes.

Then the horde was on them. As they had closed, the creatures had split again moving to charge the boats, leaping and scrabbling at the taller hulls. Zhajoie watched as the things began to crawl up the smooth hulls, fingers somehow gripping at even insignificant handholds. The men with pistols and shotguns rushed to the edges and began shouting, then opened up as their faces registered with horror the reality before them.

Faces devoid of _any_ humanity - snarling, twisted visages - some had eyes missing, others with joints and features shifted like melted wax; some had onyl half a face, or dissolved and tattered clothes; or the flesh and cloth were fused, melded together. The shotguns ripped the creatures apart, turning them into black-ash, like torn paper in the wind. The things fell so fast, but were replaced even faster. Zhaojie watched as one of the beached vessels began to list, the weight of the mob pushing at it.

"There's _fahsends_ of 'em!" yelled one man. He didn't seem far off the mark - more things were coming across the quay, in dribs and drabs, forming another wave.

"Conserve ammunition! Aimed shots!" that was one Corporal - the man needn't have bothered - the soldiers barely NEEDED to aim, so thick was the crowd. One shotgun blast took out three of the crawling horrors; a rifle perforated one beast and felled another behind it. Zhaojie grimaced.

"Maxim guns, controlled burst, sweep the crowd _behind_ the closer enemies, thin their ranks. Mr Essex, any sign of our boat?"

"At the bend sir, six hundred yards! Closing!"

"Mr Fredericks, your section will clear a path, we will need all the men aboard this boat - I doubt we will have a chance to let them moor up."

Another Corporal nodded and shouted instructions to his section. The other two beached vessels were only twenty yards or so away, adjacent to Zhaojie's central one, but the ground was crowded. The chatter of a maxim gun broke through and Zhaojie saw the incoming horde stagger, as they were felled like wheat before a scythe. The gun chattered again, keeping the incoming mob at bay, and allowing one of the boats to clear a path. A gangplank thudded down and men ran across, joining Zhaojie's group. He nodded as Jiayi joined him at the rail and watched as she cracked off another shot.

"Do not waste the rifle ammunition. These things are paper tigers. Watch," A creature grappled at a straggler, but the soldier shoved it back and swung his rifle like a club. The creature's head popped in a puff of black dust and it collapsed, "Dangerous in numbers, but they seem… weaker as a single foe. All sections, maximise ammunition - aim for groups. Rifles, cease fire, switch to bayonets."

The scattering retort of rifles pittered out and instead the air filled with the meaty _thuds_ and _snicks_ of blades and clubs hitting dried flesh. Lamplight washed over the quay and Zhaojie cursed as their night vision was wiped out. The boat was trying to assist, casting their fight into sudden austere relief. But the light did do _something_ useful.

As it swept over the crowd, the creatures seemed to hiss and pull back, shocked by the sudden shift. It was momentary, but bought a few seconds for the second boat the pull over as well. But it also lit up the far end of the quay, where there were _more_ of the things, spilling out from the terraces and cottages.

The last man scrambled aboard, up the gangplank, but it slipped away and he hung from the railing, his rifle clattering to the deck. He yelled out as a _thing_ grappled at his leg. The creature used him as a ladder, scrambling over him onto the ship, followed by another. The soldiers were cramped here and it was harder to get a swing in with the unwieldy rifles, or to take a shot. Jiayi pulled a knife from her belt and leapt forwards, stabbing the first creature, and kicking the second. She bent down and, with another soldier, hauled the wounded man aboard. He was covered in scratches and his trousers seemed shredded where the mob had clawed at him.

"Get us out of here!" One of the men in the wheelhouse shouted and the engine of the moored vessel rumbled to life. It shuddered as it lurched backwards, then halted. The ropes were still tied to mooring pontoons, "Cut us loose!"

More creatures were scrambling up the sides, the ship now even lower in the water with the number of men aboard. There was a metallic _clang_ and a hiss as the steam cannon fired. The shot sent a dozen of the creatures pinwheeling away, trailing black dust behind them.

Shots rang out, this time from the boat on the river, as the crew out there provided overwatch, keeping the flanks clear. The soldiers were sawing at ropes, but making painfully slow progress. All around was a melee as men punched and kicked, shot and stabbed at the horde. Zhaojie heard a high pitched shriek and saw a man pulled over the side by grasping, grey hands.. Another man swore as he was grappled. His eyes met Zhaojies and he pulled a bomblet from his pouch, just as he disappeared over the side into the throng.

"Everyone _down!"_ shouted the lieutenant and the soldiers all ducked and covered their ears. The blast rocked the boat and cleared a good chunk of the monsters. Another howl filled the air, this time from the south. Zhaojie cursed.

A snap echoed across the deck, followed by a cry of "We're clear!" Jiayi stood next to one rope, knife in hand, another soldier on the other side, smoking shotgun in his. Zhaojie chuckled, "An elegant solution…"

The boat juddered and reversed as, down below, men shoveling coal into the boiler. It chugged backwards out of the dock, dragging some of the cling-creatures with it. As the soldiers watched, one of the things tumbled off the hull and hit the water. As soon as it met the river it let out a gurgling howl and _dissolved_, coming apart like sand in a glass.

The trawler bobbed unsteadily and they manoeuvred it closer to their "mothership". Zhaojie looked up and saw Hackett leaning over the rail.

"Ye gods, Zhang, what the devil was all that?"

A glance back at shore saw the creatures milling about, hissing and staring at the ships. Zhaojie watched as, around him, ropes were thrown and hauled up, locking the two boats together. He held up a hand.

"Kill the engines. Everyone quiet… EVERYONE. Douse the lights."

It took a few minutes but silence fell as the engines faltered and men shuffled into quiet anticipation. The lamps went out, but the creatures still milled, staring straight at them.

Zhaojie beckoned Jiayi over and whispered to her, "Throw a bomblet, due south, into the water. I want to test something."

She nodded, her expression lost in the dark. There was the chink of a pin being pulled, part of the new sealed design of Shen's. The water made a _gloop_ sound as the grenade sank, then a hissing roar as the blast fountained it up. On the bank the creatures howled and shuffled twenty yards along the shore, some getting knocked into the water where they flailed. It seemed in shallow water they weren't so quick to… melt. But a couple tumbled back, submerged, then didn't surface again.

"Sound," murmured Zhaojie, "Loud noise calls… bigger hordes? Interesting. And another complication," He adjusted the maxim gun he carried in its sling, then clambered back aboard the mothership, "Sergeant Hackett, get our men off that boat. Then, set it on course down the river, lock the steering and let it run. Put some explosives aboard and set a long fuse."

The Sergeant frowned, "Why's that sir?"

"We can draw those beasts away, lure them downriver and, perhaps, distract the Martians if they send a patrol to check on the noise; I doubt they entirely expect these things to… dispose of intruders. We should expect a walker, or something else. Send the vessel down, then have the Captain anchor us to the south bank; get the men back below decks and kill the engine. We want to look like every other abandoned boat. At sun up, we can take stock, see if these things are active in the day."

Hackett frowned, but nodded and set to. Fifteen minutes later, they watched as the trawler set off, its steering adjusted for a gentle curve to take it just around the bend. Then the soldiers and crew descended below decks. Zhaojie watched, with Sergeant Hackett at his side, as the horde followed the rumble of the boat as it vanished past the enclosed Marina then around the bend of the river. With the cessation of battle, the flow of new creatures had stopped. So this parade was a much reduced affair. A few minutes later there was an explosion followed by another howl. They watched in silence as more creatures ran along the riverbank, with even more, barely visible in the slow half-light of the pre-dawn, scuttling over by the houses half a mile distant.

Then something else caught their eye. Zhaojie frowned and hunkered down at the hatch.

Something had come round the river bend. A strange white disc. It floated serenely above the water, bobbing through the air almost lazily. He squinted as the thing rose in the air, seeming to take in the quay and the now empty dock. It floated inland briefly, watching the scurrying things below. They appeared oblivious to it, silent as it was.

The disc then swung back and drifted back over the water, moving slowly back the way it had come, towards the column of smoke where their distraction boat had met its end.

From the decks below came a _thump_ and a muffled curse. The disc paused then spun, unfolding into something larger. It was vertical, with strange protrusions along its side, like rigid legs. Two claws at the front seemed more like mandibles, adjacent to what could only be cannon protrusions. From the rear, a segmented, metallic tail swayed from side to side, with strange spines twitching in the dark. The thing had strange glowing yellow marks along the multiple spines and limbs that stuck out. It hung in the air, twitching, like a cat that has just heard the infinitesimally small scrabblings of a rodent. Then it twitched and folded up into a disc again, and swung about, speeding away towards the black smoke column. It hovered there for a moment, seeming to sweep the area around the site, then drifted northward, vanishing over the horizon.

Zhaojie exhaled, and Hackett murmured next to him, "Too bloody close that."

The lieutenant nodded, "Yes. Not as observant though as I feared their guard dogs might be."

Hackett nodded, "Maybe they really _don't_ expect an attack?"

"Confidence. Arrogance. Complacency. We can only hope."

"You were right, them sending someone. Or something."

"And I imagine a crowd of the living dead staring at our boats may have been a giveaway."

Hackett eyed him, "Set a false trail, not just a test?"

"Our success here depends on getting as far as we can _without_ having to fight too much. We only have so much ammunition, so many men. We must engage on _our_ terms. We were lucky this time. We did not anticipate this."

"I mean, how…"

Zhaojie shook his head, "We have _known_ of the capacity for them to use the dead. We thought it a side effect. But now we know they use it as an area… denial method."

"Bloody hell. And I thought barbed wire and artillery were bad. Bloody Frankenstein's blocking towns and routes. That'll mess with your noggin' something fierce."

Zhaojie nodded, "We wait until morning, moor up, then move inland. We know to the south they have walkers. But we can avoid those. The North presents potentially easier traversal, but the risk of summoning a great horde. The question is - are they a loyal guard dog, or an indiscriminate tool."

Hackett shrugged, "What if they are?" The lieutenant mused for a moment and shrugged.

"We shall see. In combat, a discarded weapon is something that can be used against you. An unwatched flank is a vulnerability, no matter how thick the wall you build there."

"You're just full of them proverbs, ain't you?"

Zhaojie gave him a deadpan look, "Good, aren't they?"

Hackett snorted, quietly, "Bloody aphorisms. Right, lets get some kip, I'll post a watch. Then we can work out which side you want to go bloody die on."


	31. Interlude - Documents

BLACK SMOKE - Observation file - ADDENDUM 26 - Doctor Ronald Ross

Notations on the submitted and collected compounds designated as "The Black Smoke"; "Devil Dust"; "The Choke-Fog" and other miscellaneous nomenclature (_see appendix II)_

\- Initial observations:

\- Non organic composition

\- Preservative elements present

\- Deployment mechanism - multiple origins (_Extrapolate_)

\- Staged effects of component elements

\- Purpose? To be confirmed

\- Anomalous as not conforming with other displayed equipment utilised by enemy forces (**Corroborate with Doctor Vahlen's military liaison)**

I write these notes as a record of my findings, having been seconded to the mysterious project being undertaken in London Bridge. I would state, for the record, my initial chagrin at being placed _under_ the direction of Doctor Vahlen. However, I was disabused of any notions of impropriety and incompetence upon presentation of the reality of the project and her in depth knowledge. I have spoken with several peers and, despite the current emergency, was able to contact several eminent colleagues still within the City. All have vouchsafed that she is, indeed, to be commended and that I should consider myself _deputised_.

This particular portfolio documents my initial study of the chemical compound deployed in the early stages of the invasion and which has been subsequently deployed by our adversaries in prominent artillery displays. Whilst I am not of a military bearing, i will endeavour to extrapolate some form of _Doctrina opportuna_ from their methodology.

My first observation should be noted that the Black Smoke we have been able to collect is in some form _inert_. Thus far, studying it in its deployed form has proven impossible, due to its apparent lethality. However, there is a secondary component here which has been observed by witnesses beyond the effective impact zones: the smoke is not 100% lethal upon contact. Indeed, it appears to act as a form of sedative.

The second observation is that the Smoke only becomes lethal when entering its apparent "inert" state, usually via the application of extreme temperature changes, turning the smoke into the fine dust that currently blankets much of western London and, if the rumours are to be believed, southern England as a whole. This particular effect was observed by soldiers, witnessing the enemy "fighting machines" spraying steam after shelling particular areas. Afflicted areas then moved into a secondary stage.

The inert smoke is not an organic compound. It is made of several base metals, and, upon investigation under microscopic analysis, something far stranger.

The smoke is, apparently, made up of minuscule geometric shapes; all uniform in size and shape. Whilst inert, these strange _micro-mechanicals,_ as I have termed them, are motionless. However, upon the addition of organic material, they cease to be _inert_ and move into and active phase. Observation shows that they appear to disassemble organic tissue; however, this behaviour is _not_ consistent either! Different samples have elicited several different reactions:

**Sample of pig flesh:** No reactivity from the materiel

**Sample of dead human tissue:** minor reaction, resulting in decomposition of tissue into a "slurry" form, merging layers of skin and muscle into a paste

**Sample of fresh human skin tissue: **extreme activity, resulting in a "cocoon" of white-green fibre, securing the tissue to the petri-dish.

**Exposure to live animal (dog): **rendered animal to slurry within 2.36 minutes. Dog was rendered unconscious for the duration of this, despite material having been applied to it whilst conscious: _secondary anaesthesia effects?_

**I have requested a live human sample but this request has been (currently) denied.**

**Exposure to sample of the "SECTOID" creatures flesh: **no reaction

**Exposure to sample of the "TALL MAN" creatures flesh: **minor reaction resulting in minor regeneration of tissue

**Exposure to sample of the "ROCKETEER" creatures flesh: **no reaction

**Exposure to sample of the "MUTON" creatures flesh: **minor regenerative effects on the tissue, as well as spontaneous generation of chemical traces. These appear to match the chemicals found inside the masks of these creatures, save that this was in a liquid form. Further analysis indicates it is likely some form of aggression related chemical, stimulating the creatures, in the same way cocaine extract is shown to do in humans.(_Appendix II)_

This brings me to another of the observed effects: whilst the smoke is immediately dissipated by extreme heat (In the form of steam) exposure to high intensity flame actively eliminates it. All particles within the cloud are rendered slag-like and reduce it to no more than choking ash. Still an effective battlefield deterrent - the particles are particularly harmful to the human respiratory system: burning areas or setting fires to prevent the spread will simply turn one hazard into another.

Then we are onto the more alarming effect of the smoke whilst in its supposed _inert_ form. As mentioned, with some exposed human tissue it manages to create cocoon-like webbing. This has been observed in several locations; humans bound or covered in what appears to be a fine webbing. Theories have abounded from my peers: a side effect of the atmosphere with the smoke; some form of microbial reaction with terrestrial material; some form of insect life within the smoke creating a form of nest?

Some of my peers, upon hearing of the apparent existence of large "crab like" or "ant like" (Accounts appear to vary) beings used by the invaders has led to an assumption that the webbing was a product of these beings. However, the webbing was apparent after the initial descent of the pods and far too in advance of the sightings of these unknown beasts (Despite some dubbing them "_Chryssalidis Major_" in some over-enthusiastic zoological naming); also, the webbing itself is not an organic resin as we would find from a living being; more a polymer of some sort, extruded from oils; organic in nature to a _point_ but not extruded by any being that I can contemplate.

I will venture a step further: I believe the smoke _itself_ produces the webbing. And that it does so _selectively. _ Several peers have objected to this when I have mentioned it, citing the frank absurdity: thinking microbial machinery. I admit, when written down the idea appears preposterous. And yet, Doctor Vahlen urges us to consider the abject impossibility of these things: we have borne witness beings from beyond nightmares; seen vast machines walking in defiance of gravity and the thoroughly measured laws of physics. Observed weaponry strike our Empire that we dared not dream of.

So, to expand: I believe the weapon we have called "Black Smoke" serves a purpose: a tool, if you will, beyond just simple artillery. It bombards an area, rendering the population comatose or dead from inhalation; it then _somehow_ selects or secures the majority of the population. We are able to extrapolate that the invaders _do_ take prisoners. This weapons secures living beings, although it is inconsistent in doing so; this is the primary objection to my theory - surely it should be uniform. My counter is that which unnerves my colleagues: it is _selective_. Somehow and for some likely nefarious purpose, I believe that our opponents are seeking _something_ with their targeting.

Others believe it is a fluke of biology: how can a weapon from another world be expected to have a universal effect on a completely alien species, such as ourselves. I will say that this has some merit. Until you consider the secondary effect on living tissue.

That is to say: Re-Animation.

The invaders have moved to secure areas and have removed primarily individuals afflicted with the webbing; but not ALL of them. Observations in the field have noted invader scouts apparently _testing_ secured bodies and ignored some. Unsecured bodies are ignored _entirely_ or simply (apparently) processed for _nutrition_. Bodies recovered from several underground facilities have ALL been covered in secured webbing; webbing which is also capable of reforming allowing for _ease of packing_ of beings.

The remnants are left, but the inert material appears to continue working, albeit on a reduced level. The aforementioned reduction to _slurry_ appears to only impact those humans killed in the barrage or with some sort of external inducement (_dead flesh or via the application of an electrical current - this was noted when an assistant lost a finger after spilling a sample onto their hand and received a static shock. We were able to apply heat in time to save his hand_) - the remainder undergo a slow shift, taking approximately 23 hours. Inhalation of the smoke would _appear_ (Again from field observations in _appendix I_) to accelerate this. Samples taken from what patrols have taken to calling "_The Lost and The Damned"_ or "_Ghouls_" show a cessation of normal necrosis; or rather, a severe reduction. Putrefaction appears to be markedly reduced and, indeed a sort of ossification and petrification begins - glowing, almost mineral protrusions; brittle, calcium deposits forming a brittle underlay of the skin. It appears as if the Smoke is attempting to convert the organic material into something else; perhaps this is an intentional phase; perhaps not.

The end result is a being with markedly reduced water content but no requirement for sustenance. The subject enters a form of hibernation. In this new state, it is incredibly susceptible to vibration. This appears to drive it to insanity and hysteria, sending it to the source of the sound where it will attempt to destroy the source.

This is incredibly _specific_ behaviour and it is displayed, without fail, across the _Lost_. Some specimens appear to undergo petrification and are utterly inert - this would appear to be a result of complete dehydration, resulting in a completely inert husk.

These are my opinion thoughts on the material and more detailed notes, findings and analysis can be found in the attached dossier, detailing methodology, precise chemical breakdowns and observed reaction.

I will conclude several things, in this opening missive, to go back to the strategy of this tool. It is my opinion that the weapon serves a two-fold purpose: a "terror weapon" designed to instil fear and a collection tool. These roles appear to be overlapping. My feelings on the deployment and use by our enemies is as follows:

1) Initial bombardment to neutralise large population areas or areas of threat: this allows for pacification without allocation of excessive forces.

2) Application of steam to enable secondary phasing (If in a rapid advance) or allowing the smoke to dissipate and become inert itself.

3) Securing of samples (Following a scouting foray to check for suitable samples)

4) Allow remainder of affected individuals to "Re-animate" if the area is not of immediate strategic import.

Via this method, the invaders are capable of flushing out ill-prepared defenders and also allowing for the securing of flanks via an expendable military force. We do not, however, know how the _Lost_ react to the presence of the invaders: to date, no observed interactions between them have been observed. Thus we are unable to confirm whether these beings act like an auxiliary force. Or like a land-mine.

**Addendum: Countermeasures**

I have been queried on possible countermeasures or preventatives against this particular weapon. In aerosol form, it appears inhalation is not necessary for the effects to occur: skin contact alone begins the initial process.

As such I advise several solutions:

1) Full body coverage, multiple layers of thick clothing. The smoke appears to only work well with skin or inhalation contact: thick clothing _can_ block it, temporarily. The newly developed masks-for-gas, with a good air filter, also work.

2) Water: it appears to not work effectively in water (Hot or cold). The smoke works in the fluid of human lungs and veins, but in aerosol form it cannot penetrate liquids and appears to not work in large bodies - introduced to a liquid solution it disperses too much to be effective. Concentration appears to have a marked impact

3) Application of heat: naked flame removes the subsequent effects of the smoke. Burning is also effective against the _Lost_.

4) Steam: as mentioned, steam turns the smoke into its more inert form. This is dangerous as this is also the form where it moves into its "transformative" or "analysis" phases, building cocoons. However, it also prevents its spread and allows for the minimising of contact against organic contact (Skin etc); it is easier to remove from the ground than the air!

Final note: The smoke itself appears to have a short "life" if not in contact with organic tissue: our samples were taken from _Lost_ or retrieved, comatose survivors. Bathing the afflicted appears to solve many issues, as does a steam-bath. We have several survivors regaining consciousness. However, this has presented further issues, detailed in **Appendix V**. _Full security clearance from Doctor Vahlen is required for access to this element of the dossier; it is kept in the secure filing division_

Yours,

Doctor Ronald Ross

Formerly Bombay Hospital


	32. Chapter 30

The options were stark: North or South.

The North had the easiest access to the city proper. But then again they weren't sure about the precise location of their objective: the intelligence that they'd been handed indicated the transmitter was _potentially_ around the city centre. But that was intelligence gathered at least a week ago, with the possibility of movement. Add onto that, the presence of the _Lost,_ as the men called them. Potentially thousands of abandoned people, twisted by the invader's machinations.

To the South: sparser population centres, farmland and forests. But also _fifty foot tall walking death-engines._ And whatever additional troops the enemy had decided to deploy along their southern flank. If they were as cunning as their technology indicated, that would surely be where they'd reinforced: as the south was where the bulk of the British army was based and, thus, where any assault would originate.

Zhaojie had sat at the back of the cargo hold, head resting against a sack of oats, whilst the Corporals and Hackett argued the toss. He breathed slowly, listening to their hushed, but terse, conversation. They went quiet when he straightened and leaned forwards.

"How much ammunition do we have?"

The soldiers exchange glances. Hackett chewed his cheek and shrugged, "Twenty more crates aboard, plus the scalings the troops have. A good ten thousand rounds at least."

"Explosives?"

"Three hundred pounds, give or take. Plus petards. Bomb-lets and the like."

"Enough to stem the entire population of Newcastle?" The men frowned and Zhaojie chuckled, but without humour. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face shadowed by the dim candle-light, "South we likely face the rear-guard of our foes. You do not place your sentry lines _next_ to your command tent, no?"

Hackett shifted, "But they won't be unguarded."

"No, but a bulk force will be easier to spot. Likewise to the north, we face hordes, with numbers unknown. Especially at night, when sound will carry."

"So neither option is a goer? Well, we could try the river, go as far up as we can."

"A moving boat in a dead river, Sergeant? We know they are watching the waterways."

Hackett gave an exasperated grunt, "Zhang you know I like you, but this cryptic stuff gets bloody old. Out with it, before these idle sods glaze over," Zhaojie raised an eyebrow and Hackett gave a lopsided grin, "If you'd be so kind, _sir_."

"All three."

Hackett frowned again, "I'm not sure I follow…"

Zhaojie chuckled again, "Not so hard, Sergeant. The real problem is not the direction - all pathways are deadly; our choice is the manner of risk we wish to take and how we would fight. The mistake is assuming we will always end in combat; thus you are all talking about the best way to have a last stand. This is not Rorke's Drift, my friend."

He pointed at the map spread out on the crate and tranced lines along it. Hackett frowned and looked back up, "Split the troops? But that'll mean if they are caught out, we can't help…"

"The aim is to not _get_ caught. We are not here to _fight_. Sergeant. We are here to _capture_. We need to get in and then get _out_. The Out part is where we'll be fighting, in the worst case. And I imagine we'll want more ammunition at that point."

One of the Corporals shuffled, "True enough. But still that minor sticking point of getting _in_, Boss."

"As I say, split. Smaller groups are harder to track and if one is seen then they will likely be able to draw attention. But I do not think that will be enough. I do not wish to put men out there as… bait."

He indicated some more points on the map, slightly inland to the north, then traced a line across the river. The Corporals watched as the Chinaman placed small buttons he fished from his pocket atop the man. "Points of interest… and in villages?"

"Let us note what we have learned. One, the enemy to the north respond to sound. Or rather, _loud_ sound. Two, the enemy to the south also seem to respond to these disturbances, but with only a limited response. Three, we know the enemy to the south has firepower in excess of our own. Thus, we would wish to avoid it. We can either go around them or… _move_ them."

Hackett and the Corporals exchanged glances, "We can't exactly ask them politely, boss."

Zhaojie grinned, his face near demonic in the candle-light, "Oh I don't know, Sergeant Hackett. Everyone enjoys receiving an invitation, do they not?"

* * *

London was quiet, for a city under siege. Smoke drifted lazily across the horizon, blotting out the sun, as the season drifted towards Autumn. When winter hit, things would get much, _much_ harder. Within the White Tower of fortress at Tower Bridge, Anderson stood in front of a map of the city and glared at it.

Black zones, demarcated by threads of dark string, ringed areas of denial, where the strange impact of the black canisters had given rise to the dead _walking_. Dark purple indicated where known enemy incursions kept cropping up, marked by pins. And there were a _lot_. Reports indicated the Fenian movement were fully involved with the invaders, but newer reports indicated men in uniforms, potentially indicating traitors from the Army or perhaps a _foreign_ power operating within the great City.

But there were other, _human_ concerns.

Areas ringed in red, small now, but spreading. Upsurges in an outbreak of cholera and influenza; dysentery and other highly infectious diseases. Bodies were being cleared as fast as more refugees poured in from all over, pressed in from boroughs slowly falling to artillery strikes or terror attacks from the invaders.

London was a pot ready to boil over. The river was choked with makeshift rafts, made of lashed-together barges; parks were tented camps; streets and stations were home to huddled figures. They'd had to pen off parts of the city and turn them into plague pits, disposing of unknown dead. Many in the administration had fled, seeking their own salvation, adding to the tide.

Not enough men to man the gates, let alone bury the dead.

Anderson heaved a sigh and glanced over at one of the crowded tables in the Command room. Clerks and soldiers were crowded around it, poring over dispatches and recent communications from the front. It'd been nearly three days since they'd sent the expedition to the north of England and no word as yet. A hell of a gamble, but it felt like that was all they had left.

He'd listened to an early morning briefing which had covered the initial movements; the Royal Marine contingent was moving north, out of the safe zones created by the Naval gun-ranges. Portsmouth and most of the southern coast was safe… safer at least for now. The marines had rendezvous with a contingent of Army regulars, a mish-mash of battalion remnants and corps trying to reorganise. So far, they had managed to form a bulwark and had, apparently, pushed up to South of Aldershot. Beyond that news was grim; most of the West of England was burning. Fields aflame, forests being torn down and that insidious red weed spreading like a scab across the land.

General Marter had dispatched the majority of the military based in London to the West, intending to push from Ealing outwards, clearing any zones of the _Lost_ and securing a buffer. The cavalry needed open land, so had been sent north out of the city to try to make use of the more open terrain and to reconnoitre where they could.

What missives he'd been sent had indicated a planned assault for the following day - a pincer attack from three directions, at different points along the enemy's line of advance. The plan was sound - allow the enemy to spread out, reducing their ability to focus their formidable power in any one area. Multiple artillery barrages from several key directions followed by a "lightning thrust" as the abject imbecile Tasseter.

It wasn't a _terrible_ plan overall. But even _one_ of those machines was a terror - eliminating the threat posed by God-knew how many _and _pushing into the enemy's area of influence? That seemed improbable.

Anderson chided himself - it had been _his_ suggestion, after all. But then again, he had also expected the other commanders to add a level of nuance, or some sort of strategy beyond… _charge_. Frankly, it was all a little too _Punch_ for his liking. But then again, fear made men revert to their base nature. And it seemed to have brought out the strategically anaemic in the British high command.

A young officer approached and coughed, handing over a small slip of paper. Anderson read it and sighed.

"So, into the breach in three days. Barely seems any time at all. Let us hope the gods smile on us. Lieutenant, have you seen Doctor Vahlen?"

"No sir. She was due to have finished briefing Mr Smytheson and his aides, sir. So likely she will be in the main research offices still."

"Thank you. Carry on."

Anderson watched the man go and turned back to the map. His gaze took in the more reassuring colouration - greens and blues, denoting garrison placements, artillery zones and ranges, as well as a few other little surprises. He'd marked out, using orange string, the areas he'd entrusted to the East India Remnant, as he called them.

Smytheson was an unknown, not entirely trustworthy. Likely as not, he would try to turn a profit from whatever endeavours he encountered. But Anderson had glimpsed his men - long-coat wearing men in scarves and with decent rifles - an older version of the British Army issued Martini-Henry rifles. Reliable at least. He'd given them duties more around policing and securing some of the fringe areas near vulnerable roads or train tracks - but nothing key.

Smytheson had been all smiles, volunteering his men wherever needed, but Anderson didn't want to rely too much on them yet. They would prove a useful reserve, an augmentation to the core defence of London, hence their scattering near civilian groups and refugee camps, supporting the diminished constabulary of the Metropolitan Police. A few of their trench-coat wearing figures he'd allowed to post on crossings and at logistical distribution yards, alongside some of Marters' remaining Garrison. The General had been grateful for the bolstering, allowing him to free up more soldiers for the fight.

Anderson heaved a sigh, then stalked from the Command room. He felt helpless, like a line flapping in the breeze. He'd given the orders and now… now he had to _wait_. And hope that Zhaojie lived up to Shen's admiration. Walking out of the White Tower, he crossed through the inner yard and clambered up the steps to the walls of the Tower of London.

Mist was settling on the Thames. He peered across the water where the covered bulk of the Ironclad sat, moored near the Hays Wharf. Shen had been aboard, marvelling at the vessel, with the Captain following like an affronted hawk. The enigmatic Chinaman had taken stock and measurements and was tinkering with something in his workshop even now. Better artillery? Improved shells? A walker of their own?

Anderson wouldn't have been surprised. His last visit he'd seen the man use one of the Heat-rays himself, although that had resulted in a lot of melted metal and a burning warehouse. But the man had not been discouraged.

There seemed to be a lot of activity over by the Ironclad, loading and unloading. Anderson was familiar with artillery drills and this looked similar - men rushing on board in uniform fashion, hauling crates on and off. Perhaps an emergency evacuation drill? Maintenance? He wasn't certain; he did need to check in with Captain Mainwering anyway, to ensure the sailors weren't getting too frustrated.

A bark of command caught his attention and he glanced down at a platoon of drilling soldiers. This bunch had been a lucky batch; Marter had seen fit to siphon _some_ new weapons their way. This batch was a series of magazine loaded rifles - Lee-Metford bolt actions, still undergoing trials But the rate of fire increase was astounding. Anderson had hopes they'd be able to distribute these more widely; Shen had taken a look and seemed of the opinion that it "would not be a challenge".

Having one's own personal armourer seemed a boon.

Lost in thought for a moment, he didn't notice he wasn't alone until a gentle cough drew his attention. Bradford stood at ease nearby.

"Sir, you ok?"

Anderson smiled and nodded, "Taking the air Captain. I don't know about you, but I do despise the waiting."

"Had a drill sergeant tell me that's what the Army was mostly about. Five hours waiting, ninety seconds of pants crapping terror, then more waiting."

Anderson's smile grew and he chuckled, "Erudite fellow. And very on the mark."

"Wanted to let you know, we got a pigeon from the north."

Anderson arched an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"From Hackett. Ship on site, the message was that they're attempting to find a mooring spot, then will check for an ease of advance into the city. They have a plan, encountered minor resistance but are currently secure and undiscovered."

Anderson arched an eyebrow, "Small writing, that Hackett…"

Bradford snorted, "If you wrote it, sir, they'd need an albatross."

"Touche."

"And… yeah I'm embellishing. Message was coded but basically 'H_ere. Mooring up. Dead enemy engaged. No live engaged. Identifying entry. More to follow."_

"Best preserve pigeons for when they find something. Good to know they're on task. But that'd have been a good four hours ago, surely, if the pigeon didn't get distracted.

"We can but hope and wait then."

"Indeed. Shall we go see what Shen's concocting? I fear it's got Captain Mainwering all a jitter, if all that rushing about over there is anything to go by."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Jiayi watched as the men unloaded the last of the boats. She huffed and rubbed her hands together in the sudden chill of the afternoon - the North of this dreary island chilled abominably. One of the men nodded at her and pulled something from his pockets, handing a tight woollen bundle to her.

"Keep you a bit warm, miss. Just don't get 'em too wt, they hold water like a bloody sponge."

She eyed the soldier then nodded, taking the bundle. The man, more of a boy really, gave a smile smile and strode up the shore towards, bending to help a fellow trooper carry an ammunition crate. Jiayi looked at the gloves, then pulled them on. She checked her rifle, crossbow and pistol, then hefted another crate and followed the troops up the shore. This was nearly half their contingent and she nodded to Zhaojie.

"_You are certain this is wise?_" she asked in Cantonese. He frowned at her, then answered in English.

"Necessary, not wise."

"_Why are we to the North_?" she queried, again in Cantonese. His frown deepened but she met his gaze.

"We know how to move more silently. And our task is to be the faster team."

On the southern bank, Hackett had the remainder of the men. The Captain had his own task and not an easy one. He'd been given the choice of going it alone or coming with them and he'd chosen to stick with the troops. He'd said he hadn't wanted to be… outdone by the army. And he'd grinned when he said it.

Zhaojie turned to his troops and looked them over - sixteen men and a few women, the latter part of the Chinese contingent. He nodded with satisfaction and spoke.

"Our job is simple. Bring the enemy to us. We must move swiftly. You know where we are headed, what our goal is. Stevenson, keep a tight hold of your explosives. Marshal, when we stop you must work swiftly. And all of you, no shouting, no gunshots if we can avoid it. Knives, crossbows, clubs. These are our first resort. Any bodies you see, make sure it _stays_ a body, but do so quietly and carefully. We go north, then west. Single file, extended line, follow each others footsteps, Jiayi will show us the quiet path. Let us go."

He turned and raised an arm. Far across the river, a good couple of hundred yards, a distant figure waved back. Zhaojie wasn't sure which of their tasks was harder, but Hackett knew the reality of trekking across occupied territory - how to avoid patrols, how to keep a larger body of men hidden. Zhaojie and his ilk, they were men and women who had hunted in Canton and the islands of the China seas; he had been raised to hunt animals and the _Lost_ were akin to beasts - driven by senses moreso than even honed soldiers.

The pigeon had gone as soon as they'd formulated the plan in detail. Three prongs:

To the North, a fast moving section laying the ground work for the distraction, as well as making headway to Newcastle.

South, the main body would move at pace to Gateshead, to see out the city and get a good view of the city from a distance. Their advance would wait for a few hours and would require some bedding down in whatever cover they could find, whilst the other teams "_cracked on"_ as Hackett had so eloquently put it. Whilst a large block of men, they would split further and take differing routes, extended, to keep abreast of patrols and push around to the city itself.

And finally, the third prong - the river. The boat would head up a short distance, then hold up, whilst the crew prepared their final distraction - a little flotilla of their own, complete with a few surprises.

Zhaojie knew it was throwing a few things at the wall and seeing what stuck; but the Northern and River teams would, if they were fast enough, make life easier for the Southern advance. Their pace was quick, across the quay they'd fought across the night before and back into the mix of railway tracks and low houses.

In the distance, maybe a mile away, smoke rose from the city. But it was darker, flecked with orange and soot. More a fire-smoke than that of industry. And Newcastle wasn't as well known for its mills. A sense of foreboding was creeping among the troops, but Zhaojie pushed them on as the sun passed its zenith.

Their journey was surprisingly free of incident. Moving between buildings they did find signs of the _Lost_ \- webbing and strands of strange fibres; smashed windows and animal carcasses. The few bodies they did find were partly crumbled, or frozen in relief - these they dispatched, quietly. Some of the men blanched as the seemingly solid bodies crumbled at the impacts of rifle butts, or a sudden stab from a bayonet.

They kept close to the river, moving along the edges of the various Quays along its shore. All along stood the abandoned hulks of unfinished ships; floating fishing boats; and the forest of masts of docked vessels listing and untended.

It was in one of these quays they found what they were after - a fuel depot. Coal stood piled in a yard just off from the main quay, whilst a warehouse stood deserted, save for several barrels of oil. Quickly, Zhaojie's men set about the place, rolling barrels into the street and splitting them with bayonets, before kicking them into the slope that led to the quay-side. Others hauled coal as quickly and quietly as they could, stacking it around the base of wooden ships and timbers. Meanwhile, Marshal and Stevenson set about setting up several explosives and laid out spooled fuses, set to a timer that Shen had provided _just in case_. Little more than a clock with a basic battery, it'd still do the job… hopefully. After half an hour, the troop moved further west, heading towards the first major bend in the river.

Jiayi had taken the opportunity to take two of her fellow Triad members with her. They checked the surrounding buildings, clearing whatever dormant _Lost_ they found, then managed to find a tall steeple to try to spy out the distant edifice that was Newcastle.

On their return Zhaojie got a stark report: the city appeared to be partly aflame. Or at the very least, it was belching smoke at an alarming rate from several points. This obscured a lot of what they could see. What Jiayi _had_ seen however, was a huge grey shed.

Zhaojie looked at her, "A _shed_."

She shifted, "Yes. Vast. As big as the Cathedral in London. It looks _new_. Long. North of the city. I could see Fighting machines through my binoculars. But not well. The smoke obscures much. And the hills her hide half of it on the rise where the river bends. Too many houses between. But i saw them. It looks to be partly in the city - they have cleared buildings on the hillside for it."

"A factory? Prison?"

"I do not know _Zhu_. Just that it was _big_."

"We must press on."

The team moved on a bit further, setting up another series of explosives around a housing area. Zhaojie was troubled - the fighting machines were on _this_ side of the river - or at least some were. Did that mean the _Lost_ weren't such a deterrent? Or was it just because _that_ part of the city was secure?

The afternoon was drawing in slowly, the sun setting, as they came towards the outskirts of the city, having curved with the river then cutting West through the village of Walker. The roads here weren't as cobbled, despite proximity to Newcastle, the quays less developed. They paused in the town, having setup another series of detonators and charges.

Even here, the view was masked by smoke and dust. It took Zhaojie a moment, perched atop the wreckage of a house, to make sense of what he was seeing.

It wasn't _smoke_ he was seeing - it was _dust_ \- erupting from excavations and the demolition of houses, being smashed apart by scuttling, distant, beetle-like walkers. He could see the south of the river, where Gateshead stood. The town was mostly intact, but buildings near the bridges were levelled, around a large crater. Evidently the cylinder _here_ had impacted the town itself. But the crater was no longer an open hole - instead, it sported a dome of green glass, faceted like the eye of a dragon-fly. It was beautiful and foreboding. From his vantage, he could make out distant entry points and a file of figures going in. He gestured for binoculars and peered through them.

His fingers tightened and he heaved a deep breath. Jiayi was scrambling up the rubble and joined him, where he sat with another scout.

"_Zhu?_"

Wordlessly, he handed the binoculars to her. He heard her gasp and nodded, then descended the pile of wasted mortar and brick, to rejoin the team. He squatted down near them at looked at them one at a time.

"We may have a complication. The invaders appear to have setup… a camp."

One of the Corporals, Essex, frowned, "Well, we knew they had one…"

"A prison camp."

Silence reigned. Hands tightened on perched rifles, faces grew pale. Corporal Essex shook his head slowly and spoke with a whisper, "It won't just be a prison camp," The others looked at him quizzically. He stared at Zhaojie, "It'll be a fucking abattoir."


	33. Chapter 31

Mainwering had been apoplectic; frothing, almost, with incandescent rage that some "_slitty eyed little devil"_ had dared tamper with his vessel. He'd practically boiled when Anderson hadn't shared his sentiments, but had calmed somewhat when Anderson had laid the law down in small words and with a cold stare.

He'd had the decency to do this in the Captain's ready room, not in front of the rank and file - that wouldn't do, to undermine a man's command. Bradford was still there though, to reinforce the chain of command, such as it was; aboard ship, a Captain was second only to God and even there it was a grey area. Also, the Royal Navy, being the "senior service", had interesting ideas about where Colonels fell in their estimation - being slightly lower than a Captain in their minds.

A quick reminder that it was only by the will of Anderson's benefactors and the de-facto commander of the British forces in London that the Captain _had _a berth at all, as well as resupply, security and so on. Anderson's role at Portsmouth also carried a _little_ weight. But the chap was nothing if not combative. Some reassurance had been forthcoming; notably the nature of how much more _survivable_ the vessel's future was, thanks to Shen's little alterations.

Bradford and Anderson decided to tour the workshops after that, only being accosted once by a burly man in braces and a bowler hat who'd leered at them. They'd gone further south into the warren of workshops and seemed to have faltered into an area that, for the want of a better word, was run by "freelancers".

However, Shen's strange reach was felt even here and a slight Chinese fellow had stepped from the shadows and shaken his head at the burly thug. Seeing a six foot brick-wall of a human shrink away in fear is quite a sight to behold. As well as his garbled apologies to Bradford and Anderson as he and his motley crew of muggers had practically fled between alleyways. Their impromptu escort had apologised and smiled, then led them back into a nearby shed. This one was another warehouse, overseen by lounging guards, as well as a few of the British Army Corps of Ordinance. In neat rows, conical cylinders sat, tips up. Each was lined with fins, whilst at the other end of the room women ground grey powder in pestles and poured it carefully into broken tubes.

Bradford frowned at the tubes and glanced at Anderson, "New artillery shells?"

"Hardly. Older, in fact. Ever heard of Mysore? Old Indian battle. Well, several, really. Maybe Congreve?"

Bradford frowned, cupping his elbow in one hand and tapping his forehead with the other, "Last one's familiar."

"Come now, good Captain. Your "_Star Spangled Banner_" even mentions them!" Shen chuckled as he emerged from behind a rack of the rockets. He nodded at Anderson, "My people have been busy. Seven hundred deployed this last week to… suruptious sites. Some to augment our Artillery friends, others more secluded. I must also say our own demolitionists have been hard at work. We have another thousand being prepped. Any further guidance?"

Anderson eyed the stockpile and nodded slowly, "Any way to make them more… effective for immediate encounters? Mysorean infantry stuck bloody knives on the things for firing straight."

Shen chuckled, "I had heard. My father told me stories of that one. He travelled that way, you know, during the war," Anderson arched an eyebrow in shock, "Oh Colonel, I hadn't been born then. I was but a twinkle, as you say. Anyway, I hear you decided to wander without a guide. Be wary, beyond our walls your uniform is little more than a chance to make some money for a cutpurse. Come, let us take tea. I have more to show you. I wouldn't credit British Engineers after the passing of the great Isembard, but… I am impressed by your young men when they are allowed to work without strict instruction."

Anderson and Bradford exchanged glances, then followed the short Chinaman, leaving the armoury behind them.

He led them through corridors and across narrow streets, all lined with covered benches, forges and shacks - the roads entirely repurposed to a point where buildings bled together like a shanty town. They arrived in what had once been a townhouse, a brown-brick affair. Inside it had undergone some stark renovations; one wall held a workbench strewn with parts and springs. A wall had been knocked through, the exposed woodwork and bricks stark against torn wallpaper. The effect was an extended receiving room, strewn with schematics and notations. Shen smiled thinly.

"I hope you do not mind, Colonel… Commander… I am never sure quite _what_ to call you. Anyway, the previous occupants have left the city… and much of the Southern boroughs are a bit… chaotic. I didn't think you would object."

Anderson sighed, "I tolerate much, Shen. We are indebted to you. But I cannot protect you from the ire of _everyone_. You and yours have been given the gift of legitimacy; don't stretch that gift too far."

Shen arched an eyebrow and folded his hands into his sleeves, peering over his round glasses, "A threat, Colonel?"

"No, and you know it Shen. More, a word of advice - if this war does end in our favour then people will return. And the Empire can't abide an _overt_ power bloc within its borders - become like those wretched gangs we hear about in less salubrious parts, it may be more costly than is worthwhile.. Just… be careful about what you appropriate for the duration. And be prepared to abandon it if need be."

The engineer stared at him for a moment then nodded slowly, "True enough. Forgive the accusation, I do sometimes forget you are not… representative of your particular class."

"I shall choose to take that as a compliment, Mr Shen."

The man nodded, then gestured to a contraption on the middle of the large table, set between the two broken rooms. It was large, inlaid with brass screws and made of hammered metal. Wood inlays allowed for fastenings and for pipes to thread in and out. The machine looked like a back-pack and was connected by a series of cables to what looked like a rifle. Except this rifle was inlaid with the strange blue alien metal, as well as several blocks covered in copper wiring. Bradford frowned at it, "Some kind of devilment? You picked it out of the wreckage?"

Shen grinned, "No, Captain. I built it."

The men both turned to look at him. Anderson adjusted his red jacket and harrumphed, "So, what, a nifty old rifle? A heat ray?"

"Not quite, Colonel. But a step up. Please, observe."

He moved over to the rifle and adjusted it where it sat, propped on a set of blocks and held in place with a clamp. Then he moved to the box and unhooked a lever which he cranked. There was a "_whizz-whizz-whizzzzz" _from within and the smell of static and copper filled the air. He moved back to the rifle and, carefully, leaned around and pulled the trigger.

As he squeezed, the blue metal _spun_ around the barrel. On inspection it looked like it was attached to a sort of spindle, with most of the barrel actual not attached to the stock of the weapon, save at three points. Tubes of copper stretched over the top of the barrel, linking the wrapped coils.

There was a split second as the metal spun, then the crack of air and the stench of ozone. At the far end of the room the brickwork splintered into dust, collapsing partially. Anderson realised there were several other holes and he blinked.

"You managed to adapt weaponry, get it working for us?" he asked, incredulous.

Shen nodded slightly, "Some of it. We can use their scavenged rifles now, some of them, but can't recharged them… yet. But this, this is an extrapolation of principles. As well as some amazing contributions from those Royal Society gentlemen you sent to me. Doctor Vahlen, in particular, was instrumental in highlighting the electrical current flow, as well as the properties of…"

Anderson nodded, "Indeed, indeed. But is it… deployable? Or a proof of concept?"

A moment later the tea arrived, borne by one of Shen's innumerable minions. The young man poured into several paper thin cups, which he handed to the trio. Shen tooked his and set it on the table, then pulled his glasses off, polishing them on a sleeve. For a moment, the terrifying shade of Whitechapel, the gang-master of Opium dens and smuggling rings looked like nothing more than an absent professor, "It requires quite the investment of material. Power packs, our own static generators, metal from the fighting machines. I cannot produce them at the same scale as, say, a bolt-action rifle…. But I think we can get a good dozen in the next month. Ammunition is easier - metal particles loaded into the breach, that gets accelerated by the coils and a compressed air charge."

Bradford held up his hands, "Hold it, hold it. This things a God damn _air rifle_."

Shen nodded, "Essentially. Albeit projected along a rail-way of electrically charged magnets. With our current batteries and generators, we would not be able to produce such a weapon - the addition of the invader power packs and the use of their metals provides us with magnitudes more…"

Bradford rubbed his eyes, "We're bushwacking aliens with a rifle I used to knock out God-damn _possums_."

Anderson chuckled, "Well, at least with that, you were left with a carcass," he gestured to the ruined brickwork, "I hope Moira doesn;t get too upset at a lack of… complete samples."

"I will let you, ah how do you say _sell that one to her_, Colonel," demurred Shen. Anderson chuckled and indicated the rifle.

"Get more of those, and maybe you can keep Brixton after all…"

* * *

Zhaojie grimaced as the troop moved at speed through the town - the day was already past its zenith and their plan was already hitting complications.

It had been simple - get into the town, bunker down, identify the invader's communication areas (All militaries had their signals areas - pigeons, flags, light boxes, telegraph and, most recently, telephone.) and then strike, seize the device and extract.

However, the reality on the ground changed things. For one, the enemy force was magnitudes larger than expected. For another, there were now prisoners to contend with. Part of him wanted to focus on the objective, to just _be done with it_. But another had seen the rage in Corporal Essex's eyes.

Britain had never been _kind_ to Zhaojie's people. It had _tolerated_ them at best. And yet, listening to the man describe the likely fate of those within those walls left a cold pit in his usually unflappable soul.

The reality was a cold dose on top of that; the numbers situation made things near untenable for both problems. And it also painted a picture of what was likely to happen to the south - if this was a _regional_ location, then the heavenly bureaucracy _knew_ what was being deployed in the mists down south, ready to envelop the foolish British advance in a meat grinder to break the back of the worlds greatest Empire.

That thought made him pause. For of course, that was it.

A strike to knock back the British. A strike that would _force_ them to commit, to attack with everything, to pull out all the stops.

Did the invaders know they would do that? Was it a gamble? How well did they _know_ the British mentality, the approach to warfare? Or was it a genuine push?

Too many doubts, far beyond his level to influence. But still it nagged at him. The British tended towards hardheadedness, but he _knew_ that they didn't tend towards blind assault. Maybe the invaders assumed they would, hoped they would. But all it would take was one over-zealous commander to lead to a break.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he met Jiayi's gaze, "_Zhu?"_

"_Wo hen hao.."_ he nodded at her, then gestured to the front. She nodded and moved to the front of their slow, stealthy advance.

The man had kept low, moving behind the houses, crawling past low walls, until they had reached a small copse, little more than a park that bordered the villages of Walker and Byker. From here their view was obstructed, but they could see the column of dust and smoke rising to the West. The squat, green dome was visible, however, the parade of people in and out still obvious even from the distance.

Over toward the city proper, the massive grey "shed" was just visible over the tree line. Something about it irked _everyone_. It was too large, too imposing, too _wrong_. And the position mean it was built on the hill at an angle that mean it was taller than the railway bridges or spires, but also that it was jutting out _from_ the hill. And from what Jiayi had said, it had no support struts, just piping that lead into another structure nearby, perhaps obscured by it.

But that would imply it was being held in place by another structure, like a shelf… or that it was, somehow, _floating_. And that was impossible - it couldn't be a balloon, too large for a dirigible, too metallic. So, strange invader-support structure was the agreed upon method.

Zhaojie called a halt and the men spread out through the tree line, staying low and talking in hushed whispers. Jiayi and her scouts came and squatted nearby as Zhaojie rummaged in the pockets of his long-coat. He produced a map and pencil, then waved over the Corporals.

"We are here, about 170 yards from the river. Jiayi, head down there with your fellows, check the waterfront, see if you can sight Hackett. He knows to make for the river by sundown today and to hold there. If not, observe what you can. Corporal Essex, I want you to take a man and move west, see if you can espy their perimeter and what likely guard we will be facing. Do _not_ attract attention. We will hunker down here. "

One of the Corporals frowned, "Not the buildings? Defensible…"

Zhaojie shook his head, "The village is a trap - narrow corridors, limited arcs of fire, higher concentration of the lost," he checked his pocket watch, fished from another pocket, "And we have an hour before our little timers trigger. And the Captain sends some other little… surprises down river."

The men grumbled but nodded - they all wanted a solid roof over their heads. No man like "digging a bivvy" to doss down in if it came down to it. Corporal Essex spoke up, "If we hit resistance?"

Zhaojie sighed, "Slow and steady, fall back as soon as you see anything. Let's leave the distraction to draw them out. But we need to know where we should slip past _to_."

Essex nodded and with that, the troops moved off to get their bearings. The remainder hunkered down, taking swigs from water canteens, breaking out hard-biscuit to take the edge off the hunger. Zhaojie opened the map and looked at it with a frown.

He was roused half an hour later when Essex and Jiayi returned. The pair had conversed quietly, then headed to talk to him. The Corporal knelt down, leaning against his rifle which he planted on the ground like a spear. Jiayi just squatted down and stared at her commander. Essex spoke first.

"Got a bit further along the rise, hugging some outhouses and a few hedgerows. Mostly fields north of here, open ground. About half a mile west there's… well, towers. Cobbled together but clearly got the invader handiwork - bits of that metal of theirs but… here's the thing," he licked his lips, "They've got _people_ in 'em."

Zhaojie frowned, "Hostages?"

Essex shook his head, "People. Or they look like people. Not them suited bastards. This lot… wearing brown-coats, helmets. Rifles, though they're a bit funny-looking. Robert was all set to call out to 'em until he saw five of the bastards walking between two of the towers with one of them Muton buggers."

Zhaojie frowned, "You're sure?"

"Well, couldn't see their faces proper. Wearing goggles and that funny helmet. But people."

Zhaojie mused, "We know the Fenian movement is working with them. They have this… force. The Commander mentioned it in a briefing, the Extra-force Command Troop or something. Maybe they have other allies here."

"The Americans? Know they haven't liked us for a while."

Zhaojie managed a chuckle, "Doubtful. I think they are being hit as hard, if not harder, than here. Unless they surrendered, which I doubt. Their national pride is in some ways stronger…" he nodded to himself, "So likely an augmented force. But we know how to fool humans. And once we're in the city, we can hide more easily, make them fight to find us. Jiayi?"

"_Zhu_, we observed a reduced fighting force on the southern side; they clearly feel that side is more secure. Fighting machines further to the south, patrolling, but only three."

Essex rolled his eyes, "Only, she says… only," he murmured. Zhaojie gestured for him to be quiet, Jiayi continued.

"No sign of Hackett as yet, but he is likely not advancing until the distraction triggers. We also observed potential… collaborators near the dome and patrolling the shore. Strongest concentration is nearest the dome and a couple of sites of what appears to be… construction. Or clearance. I am uncertain. Two of the strange beetle machines."

Essex looked thoughtful, "Those are actually pretty easy to commandeer. Sort of."

Zhaojie shot him a look and Jiayi scoffed for a moment, "Oh, and how would you know?"

He gave her a lopsided grin, "Your mate Shen? All those pretty toys he has? You can thank yours truly for that, little miss. Pop that in your opium pipe and smoke it."

She stared at him, then looked at Zhaojie. He just grinned, "Interesting, Corporal Essex. That may be a skill we will need to draw on."

They went back and forth, sketching out on paper the layout of the perimeter to the west and the observed patrol routes. After a few more minutes Zhaojie checked his watch and beckoned the Corporals over.

"We advance forward, following the route Corporal Essex has laid out. In five minutes our little surprise should go off and I expect all manner of chaos to ensure. We need to use that to move into position… here," he pointed to the map at a point overlooking the river and also with a good line of sight to the enemy perimeter, "Jiayi, your people need to be ready to check for communication from Hackett. Whilst the distraction is in effect, we can observe, see how the enemy reacts. And plan our entry to the city."

He looked around and saw several faces nodding. With that he pocketed the map and stood. As he did there was a rumble in the distance, followed by several echoing explosions. The afternoon sky, already darkening, was lit by flashes over the crest of the hill to the east. A few moments later there came the echo of alien wailing:

_**UUlllalllaaaaa**_!

With a quick nod, the team moved quickly and carefully, hugging cover and sticking to the trees. As they transitioned from treeline to open field, they hunkered down. Three hundred feet away, to the north, a tripod thundered past. Its slow, ponderous footsteps shaking the ground. The machine was making a bee-line for the source of the explosion. Above, three discs floated alongside it, flanking its advance. A small flock of six of the jet-creatures circled the behemoth as it advanced, jinking back and forth like excited starlings.

Further north, Zhaojie could make out the silhouette of another machine. He checked the south and, sure enough, a third machine advanced from the city, toppling buildings and half ruined structures., It moved along the shoreline, then stepped into the river proper. Zhaojie grinned.

They all turned their attention to the distant perimeter - little more than a few towers spaced evenly amidst ruined terraced houses. Zhaojie counted the guards, then check south, where their vantage point granted them a relatively clear view of the road into the city. The towers were spaced a good three hundred yards apart, with meandering patrols between. Currently all attention was fixated on the distant explosions and the advancing fighting machines.

"Move carefully. We move south, use the buildings for cover. The tower midway between the river and the crest of the hill has the worst line of sight. Jiayi, can your marksmen make a shot?"

The small woman smiled, "From here, most definitely."

Zhaojie nodded, "On the next detonation, mark targets, take out the watchers on the tower. We use that to advance swiftly, penetrate the perimeter. We are then in the city and can regroup. Find a building with line of sight south and we can signal Hackett at nightfall."

He watched through the binoculars, spotting two guards atop the ramshackle metal tower, then checked his watch. Next to him, four marksmen lined up shots with their Afghan rifles. It was a good three hundred yards and Jezail rifles usually, _usually _only hit targets at two hundred and seventy. And that was in the hands of seasoned Afghan hunters.

But then again, Afghans didn't have access to efficient rifling, high quality powder, good spotters and the engineering dark arts provided by Shen.

Zhaojie watched and then, as a second round of detonations went off, observed the snipers in action.

The first round went wide by a foot, spooking the sentry. The second caught him in the throat. The third round hit the second guard in the shoulder and the fourth shot went skimmer off the lip of the tower railing, just grazing the sentry. Zhaojie watched as the wounded guard stumbled backwards. The man seemed dazed, clutching at his wound. Zhaojie heard his snipers swear. Then a rifle cracked and the distant sentry fell. He turned and glared at one of the snipers. The main quailed.

"They may have heard the shot!" hissed Zhaojie. Then there was a loud explosion from the river followed by an inhuman _wail_:

_**UuuUUlllaaaaaaa-**_

It cut out suddenly and a great column of steam and black smoke rose into the air. Essex glanced at Zhaojie, "Looks like your river trap actually worked."

"We know they check the river - an obvious point of advance. I hadn't dreamed we get a fighting machine though…"

Essex nodded, "But at what cost."

"We shall have to see. Right, everyone advance. That stroke of luck will have covered us,"

The troops advanced, single file, at pace, hiding behind first a hedgerow, then a low wall as the hit the first long street of workers cottages. These were in a state of disrepair, missing walls and roofs. The troop moved through them and then found themselves at the base of the tower.

It was little more than scaffolding with reinforced plate. A ladder led up one side. It emerged from the ruin of what had once been a cottage, slap in the middle of a terrace. Zhaojie ushered the troops past it, into the edges of the sprawl that was Newcastle. He held up two men and gestured up the ladder.

"Get their weapons and bodies. We will secure them and whatever they have."

Whilst the troop kept watch, the men worked fast. First one corpse, then the other thudded to the ground. The men slid down the ladder, strange weapons slung over their shoulders. Then the troop hefted the bodies and made their way further into the city.

Over the hill, the sunset was lit by the flashes of heat ray and the familiar, distant howl of the _Lost_ echoed through the late afternoon air. Zhaojie grimaced, "So, they do not play well together. Interesting…"

Another hundred yards in, they found a section of terrace that was mostly complete and hunkered down. The corpses were deposited in the centre of what had once been a main room, whilst the troops fanned out to adjacent buildings, securing windows and doors, bunkering the place up as best they could. Zhaojie looked down at the bodies, joined by the Corporals and Jiayi.

Brown longcoats, britches with stitched on armour, some sort of rudimentary metal breastplate and _welding goggles?_ The overlarge eyewear sat atop a human lower face. Except the blood was… yellow.

The troops exchanged glances and Corporal Essex leaned down and lifted the goggles up hooking them onto the tin helmet.

"Jesus have mercy…" he whispered.

The eyes were human. But they were _wrong_. Far too large. And the nose was little more than a squashed slit, The head had no hair at all and the ears looked almost fused to the side of the skull, almost melted on.

The troops exchanged glances and Zhaojie breathed out, "Definitely _not_ Americans…"


	34. Chapter 32

Sergeant Hackett was, to put it bluntly, having a rubbish day. First was the early start. Now, he was a Sergeant - he was used to inflicting those on others. But deep in his soul he'd hoped to be approaching that stage of life when you left the service or got put into a nice cosy little quartermasters office.

Well, that was unfair - he'd miss the smell of oil and stink of the powder. No, more it was the fact it was an early start in the _north_. Which meant it was damp as a woman's undies on parade day.

Second was the pace of their advance. The southern shore was more marshland, at least close to the river, so they'd had to wade inland before turning west to advance towards Gateshead.

Third, the buggering red shite the Martians had brought with them. It choked the ground away from the water, fronds waving despite there being no breeze. And it was _everywhere_. They hadn't seen it, masked by the trees and the rise of the bank, but the weed cover buildings, walls and plants. It choked the trees that weren't near the river and several collapsed buildings looked to have been pulled down by the larger, thicker fronds.

They'd meant to advance and wait, but at their current pace he was worried they _wouldn't_ be able to get far enough even with a distraction. The ground away from the river was thick with red and some steps revealed sinkholes where the weed appeared to be burrowing out hollows. He had not idea _why_.

What was at least partly reassuring was that the stuff seemed to dislike water, or rather larger bodies of water - streams it choked out and drained, but the larger river seemed too fast flowing or too full of pollution to let it get a foothold. Something for the nutters back in London to theorise on, no doubt.

He had felt slight envy for his boss, the newly minted Lieutenant. He was used to working with utter plonkers, or people so far up their own arses they could snog themselves.

You got a few earnest ones who were wise enough to know the boundaries, who worked with their sergeants. He never _disobeyed_ officers, but he'd seen plenty who spent men like bullets. Zhang seemed different. More cautious, thoughtful. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many of that type he'd met. And he led from the front. Well, most officers _did_. But in that "Stand next to your soldiers and bark at them" format. Zhang was in the dirt with them.

He was also doing the riskier assignment, to a point. Unless the bloody walking tin men came along to piss on everyone's parade. Then he'd curse the bastard six ways to sunday. But only for want of a decent weapon to kill the bastards.

His larger group made their way excruciatingly slowly through the red weed covered farmland. They saw _nothing_. No enemies, no walkers. As they rounded a copse of trees his extended line, moving in crouched positions and with tentative glances, caught sight of the rise of the Newcastle hills for the first time. Hackett wasn't afraid to admit, even he sucked in a breath.

The cloud of dust rising over the city; the vast grey oblong that seemed to both sit and _hang_ on the edge of one hill, messing with his perspective as he tried to make sense of it, And in the distance, he could see the silhouettes of fighting machines. Mostly on the northern bank.

Thank the ruddy saints for _that_. Well, one of them was in the ruddy _river_. Because why not let the buggers wade as well!

He could feel the tint of mania in his thoughts and breathed in slowly, gesturing to either side for the men to continue advancing. They used the bun-lines of fields and ditches to mask their approaches. As they carefully advanced down an overgrown road he called a halt, pushing the large platoon into the cover of some crumbled buildings.

Hackett fished out his pocket watch and peered at it, then sighed and looked at his troops, "We've got four hours. It's bloody midday and it's taken us nearly six hours to get _here_. And we're only halfway."

He pulled out a map and, whispering, traced several routes they needed to take, to avoid bulking up and being noticed; especially now they were closer to the sentries. They were only supposed to get a little closer, or into a position where they could bolt into the city. But he didn't want his men sprinting a mile to get in there. From here they could also see a strange dome, just visible over the bulk of the town of Gateshead, strange and green, made of glass perhaps. Certainly alien. It would likely have defenders and he didn't want to get caught in the open attacking it. Best to get as close as possible then use the distraction to get in _even closer_.

The Corporals nodded, then crept off to brief their soldiers. Minutes later they were on the move, splitting into three sections. One moved further south, cutting single file through the fields, using the ragged remains of the crops for cover, where the red weed hadn't completely choked them out.

The next section took the northern fields, sticking to the hedgerows. They were slightly closer to the river, a risk, but a necessary one.

And Hackett led his section through broken rubbled villages and choked roads, moving as fast as they could. All three groups had to push further south, through Monkton Village, then veer west to head towards Wardley. The southern team would likely cross a railway line, which meant clear open ground - another risk.

Their rendezvous point was set as Heworth, on the western edge of Wardley.

Unfortunately, they hit a bit of an issue in Wardley.

This close to Newcastle they could hear the distant sounds of construction and the hiss of distant steam. Over it all was a rhythmic clunking noise that was always on the edge of hearing. Maybe that's why they got caught out.

They heard the gunfire from the south, as well as the screams.

Immediately Hackett had his men move to form a firing line from the cover of a small hamlet of buildings. They watched as the southern broke cover and charged over the red weed, vaulting and tumbling over fronds. Ten men dashing their way, two covered in blood. There should've been twelve men.

A shape erupted from the soil, all limbs and spines, shrieking as it launched itself at a man, who it tackled easily. They went down, tumbling and Hackett saw limbs flying. He remembered stories his father told him of relatives working in mills. Sometimes people fell into looms, or working machines. They came out in pieces. It was like that.

The panicking men were obscuring the line of fire and he swore, then stood up and yelled "DOWN!" Seven troopers dropped, the other two too terrified to listen. Hackett sighed and clenched his jaw, "READY, 2, 3, 4. PRESENT! 2!"

The men with the Martini Henry rifles went down on their knees in cover and went through loading and readying weapons, aimed, then fired.

The shot was abominably loud and white smoke drifted across the fields from the simultaneous discharge. But the monster that was standing up from its latest kill jerked and jinked as twelve rounds thudded into it, shattering carapace and blasting green-blue chunks from it. One of the fleeing soldiers hit the dirt just before the soldiers fired, the second miraculously avoiding being hit.

The echo of the shots faded, muffled by the buildings and tree copses. Hackett stared around the field and glared at the men who were scrambling forwards, "What the devil happened?" he hissed.

A lance-jack leaned forwards, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, "Trap…. Sergeant," Hackett waited, "Two of them, came out the ground near the rail line. Took Corporal Jimmy and Bert. We got one with a shotgun, right in the face, winged the second and legged it, saw the ground shifting like there were more."

Hackett's gaze shot back to the distant rail line, slightly sunken in the field, hidden behind a line of trees at the edge of the farmland. There was no movement. Then he looked at the field, nodding.

"Bastards… using them as _mines,_" The lance-jack looked confused, "Leaving some underground surprises. Saw these wankers in Baker Street too. Seems they like to dig. You didn't see any more?"

The soldier shook his head, then paled, "We left a couple of ammo boxes out there…" his fear was palpable. Hackett weighed it up and sighed.

"We leave it. Maybe why they haven't charged out here. Think we'll go back for the bodies and the gear. Not going to bleed us out that way. Come on, get your lads policed, loaded up and get some water on board. They we fuck right off. Private Thomas, any sign of big ugly and metal?"

One of the soldiers who was overving the north shook his head, "Watching that way, no signs. Probably get one of them disc-buggers along soon to check out the shots though."

Hackett nodded and looked at the buildings, "Check 'em, let's hunker down."

"What about Corporal Jacobs lot, north?"

"They heard shots, but only a few. He knows to go to ground after initial engagement, then continue to the rendezvous. Now, check these buildings, sharply lads. Hop to it."

Sure enough, ten minutes later a white disc floated over the trees from the city, flanked by small, black, pincery drones. Hackett observed, carefully, from a slightly open coal cellar hatch as the thing floated over the hamlet. Once it was out of sight he shut the hatch carefully and scraped the bolt home. The platoon waited in the dark, cramped cellar, breathing carefully.

Above, a floorboard suddenly creaked as something heavy moved into the house. It skittered across the floor, like something tap dancing, footfalls sharp and rapid - the clicking of claws. Then a window smashed and they heard something clack away down the street. Everyone was silent.

They hunkered down there for an hour, waiting, before Private Thomas carefully, slowly, slid the bolt back and peered out. The afternoon was getting on now and Hackett checked his watch again and huffed, "No choice, let's go."

They emerged and made their way cautiously down the road. Blood spattered the pavement, as well as spent casings. A smashed ammo box was on the path, something that made them all tense up. Hackett frowned at it, then looked over at the massed construction and nodded slowly, "Think they took the gear and the bodies. Maybe we'll be lucky and they think it was just wandering idiots. Local resistance or something," The soldiers ecxhanged glances, then Hackett waved at them to grab up the spilled ammo, "Waste not want not. Come on lads, lets go."

They moved down the road and now had a clearer view of the top of the dome. A single fighting machine stood next to it, just visible. But it seemed to be at rest, squatting lower. Hackett got them to draw a halt in the cover of another small copse of trees alongside the walled road and peered through his binoculars. The machine was connected to a gantry that led into the side of the dome - some sort of maintenance? Dock? Who knew.

Further along the road they saw Heworth - basically, the edge of Gateshead. A quick recce with binos showed a white cloth flapping from the upper window of one of the houses at the edge of the urban build. Most houses seemed to be little more than shells - blown out windows or missing whole walls. Some had no roofs at all.

Hackett led his men to the building paused outside. A whistle came from inside, a recognisable tune.

_King George commands and we obey._

He whistled a response,

_Over the hills and far away._

It was old, more a folk tune, but a lot of the infantry still hummed it now and then, in memory of the Queens long-dead Uncle, King George.

Corporal Jacobs appeared at the window and waved them in. The platoon piled into the building, spreading out and hunkering town in the cramped terrace. Really, they spilled into two buildings as there seemed to be serious structural damage to interior walls.

Jacobs gave Hackett a once over, looking relieved. The Sergeant smirked, "Look like you want to bloody marry me, boyo."

"Well, sarge, heard that bloody racket you made. We had to bloody lie down in the bloody bog, you know. Up to our necks in water, covered in mud as that bloody flying wheel thing went over. Then booked it like we owed the devil money. Saw some of those 'orrible spikey horse things go galloping past with the disc thing. And saw some blokes being carried in the fucking _air_, mate. By little black floating things. This stuff is mucked up, sarge,"

Hackett nodded, "You ain't wrong. So, got the lie of the land?"

"Only been 'ere twenty minutes. But, yeah. It's a shitter, boss. Glad you turned up cos I haven't got a clue what we do next."

"Oh?"

Jacobs laid it out - the dome had people going in and out - they had a man out, getting a closer look. Careful-like. But there were watch-towers and a single patrolling walker - the one that was docked. Apparently it looked like it was undergoing a crew change as the strange grey things had clambered out of it.

Also, it seemed there were _humans_ helping the aliens. Trench-coat, tricorn wearing weird ones, with welding masks that covered their eyes, or scarves over their faces. Some had gas masks, which seemed to indicate the place could have dust or gas in there.

Hackett exhaled then popped out his pocket watch, "Half an hour lads. Right, Lance-corporal Smitwick, Corporal Jacobs, lets plan something out."

The scout returned at that point and sat down with them at the shattered kitchen table, unrolling a scrappy piece of paper and pointing out some rough and ready drawings of the layout, "We'd need to do a proper recce of the place first though. That could take a while."

Hackett shook his head, "No time. But then again looking at how they've just got the walker just sat there, unmanned… don't think they're expecting much of a threat."

There seemed to be two visible watchtowers, hastily constructed and over-watching the rubbled buildings. They were setup seventy yards from the edge of the dome. And a good line of sight over the more open areas to the east. But south of them the buildings hampered good avenues of sight - clearly it was meant as a perimeter. Not a hardened target. _That_ appeared to be on the other side of the river, which was where the walkers were concentrated.

No, this was a prison camp. And most prison camp guards had their attention focused _inward_. Hackett stroked his chin, then ran a hand through salt and pepper hair. His woolen jacket was feeling warm, his shirt starchy and itchy. He needed a bath. His boots were scuffed and muddy, his trousers a mess, overcoat stained with dust. And he felt alive all of a sudden.

"Them spiky buggers. They're the proper guards."

"Not great ones though, are they?" mused Jacobs, earning a sharp glare from Smitwick. Hackett waved him away idly.

"No, they're meant to deter, set off those discs. Maybe panic unexpecting idiots to hold ground. If we hadn't seen that last one before we would've been caught with our pants down. Imagine if we'd blundered this way the way we did to the north. Sliced up like carrots for a stew, then god knows whatever that disc does, _then_ a walker maybe. No. You get this far, they're expecting maybe two or three blokes, stragglers. So, likely got sharpshooters and watching for panicking, scared people."

"Awful big assumption there, Sergeant," murmured Smitwick, looking uncertain. To his surprise Hackett nodded.

"Maybe wishful thinking. But these bastards have been up here for a while, getting all dug in. You've done guard duty. You know how you doze off when you want to. You rely on the dogs, the wire, your other mates. It's a lapse. But go a while with bugger all happening? Yeah this smacks of sloppy. They had us rock up and shoot some of their sentries… and where's the alarms, the walker smashing buildings and being scary?"

The soldiers exchanged frowns, "But… if the distraction."

"Yeah that'll probably actually put them on more of an alert… but we assumed this lot were a honed fighting force of never-sleeping murder bastards. Turns out they can be sloppy as well, potentially. But look at it - no patrols, a single trooper, maybe two, to a tower. And not even that attentive for sharpshooters if Mac here got a look at them. They're looking _in_. Stopping the bloody cattle legging it."

He shook his head, as if suddenly realising something. Jacobs cocked an eyebrow, "What's that boss?"

"They really don't think much of us. I don't know why, I just have a sudden feeling. Bizarre. They _don't_ expect much. They think we're all down south getting our collective shit kicked in."

The NCOs exchanged confused looks and Hackett shook his head, the strange thoughts flitting away. It had been a weird epiphany-like experience. Some sort of overall realisation, a deep sense of _arrogance_ washing over him, like that feeling when you catch someone sneering at you when you thought they liked you. The mask falling away.

Bizarre.

Hackett fished the pocket watch from his jacket and glanced at it, then nodded. He issued some more orders, had the troops load up, checking primary and secondary weapons. Ammo crates and explosives all checked. Then he grabbed two of the demolitions soldiers.

"I want trip wired bombs across the streets into town and in the main buildings to either side. Plus one on a long trigger-fuse, got it?" The pair nodded and began unpacking the explosives and fuse lines. He briefed the corporals and set the men up for a rapid briefing, outline their line of advance into three main areas of the dome. And then explained their role."

"The Northern team are going to identify and secure the device. We are support. But we're also distraction number two. Striking an enemy hot spot, wound them, then leave traps. But here we have a change in the plan. A prison camp. Some sort of labour and food processing plant maybe," all the men _knew_ what the invaders did with captured humans, "So a ripe moment to really fuck up their day. We'll hit them, try to lure them out, see if we can't knock out that walker. Demo lads are setting up rear guard devices so we don't get nasty surprised. Then we need to get a path into the dome, disable that walker and do as much damage as we can."

He went over avenues, walked through the sketch plan and then checked his watch again, Jacobs took up the sergeants speech as the man checked his timepiece, "It's quick and dirty. We don't have a good lie of the land. But we're here to cause a ruckus. And who better for that, eh?"

A few chuckles went around the room and men nodded. Hackett looked around the room and grinned, "Five. Four. Three. Two. O-"

A series of explosions echoed from the North east, followed by a ululation from the Martians. Hackett gestured to the men and a few peered out of windows or spilled into the back garden of the terrace, watching carefully in the fading light.

They had a slightly obscured view of two of the fighting machines - one advancing down the river, parallel to them, the other heading over the hillside beyond. They were strangely elegant to watch, almost gliding as they walked, only the slightest hiss of steam and rumble of the ground as their ovoid bodies were perambulated by the pistoning legs. From this distance they looked like toys. The one on the hill moved away vanishing from sight, but they could see the light flashing as the heat ray began to spray.

The one on the river turned slightly, then there was a crash and a second explosive cacophony. The river walker seemed distracted, turning about as if unsure. The lower part of its legs were hidden by rooftops and the line of the shore-crest. But the cockpit body twisted as the legs pivoted. The machine belched black smoke and steam, then it advanced, moving around the bend in the river.

There was a sudden flash and a louder explosion echoed across the open expanse. The machine wailed and tumbled, a shattered limb flailing as it collapsed.

"Sergeant!"

Hackett moved back inside and peered out the front window carefully, where a soldier was pointing. He checked through his binoculars and, through a break in the buildings, saw the fighting machine "docked" to the dome begin to move. An insectoid scuttled along the gantry and leapt aboard, even as the machine itself began to pull away. The machines thumbed in an awkward turn and then loped away, heading towards the river., the ground gently shaking with each step. The sergeant grinned.

"Alright my lovely lads. Let's go introduce ourselves to the neighbourhood."


	35. Chapter 33

The afternoon was fast vanishing and Zhaoji was feeling pressured. His team were now deep into the city perimeter, moving quietly from building to building. Within the territory of the invader, however, the risk was quizzically lessened. There were drones floating about, strange claw-like metal balls, as well as the flying discs floating serenely down the odd street.

However, most of the northern part of the city was the edges of the town homes were destroyed, but here and towards the station a fair few still stood tall, the only signs of damage being shattered windows or missing rooftops.

As the drew further West they had seen the vast "shed" up close. And Zhaojie had realised it wasn't a shed.

It was a _ship_.

Huge, five hundred yards long at _least_. Taller than most buildings. It also wasn't quite "landed" - large legs jutted from it, braced against crushed buildings. And yet it seemed precariously balanced and sturdy at the same time. Ramps were open along its sides and one to the rear - though that was to the North and the entrance was not visible. The team had managed to hole up in a building which offered a view to the South, to the strange dome in gateshead.

They'd holed up, having brought the corpses with them to cover their tracks. Scouts had snuck onto the roofs of adjacent buildings and were hiding under discarded roof tiles and debris, watching for enemies and signals from the south.

Their problem was finding the device that Vahlen wanted. The vast Ship could possess one. Or one of the alien buildings alongside it - similar to some perverse adoption of a "dock".

One of his scouts reported that there appeared to be more of the walkers - larger three legged and smaller, squat spider-like walkers. However they appeared to be moving _into_ the ship. The scout counted thirty. Zhaojie had gone pale and all the soldiers had taken a sombre view.

Thirty of the walkers. Where had they all come from? The answer presented itself when another scout reported seeing one advancing from the dome - they'd seen one depart earlier, heading toward their distraction. But apparently another had emerged from a large door in the dome's side. Which gave an answer as to the place's true purpose.

A factory.

Which meant that the northern base was, what? Corporal Essex had answered that one.

"Deployment, innit? They're using this place to ship those things further afield," Zhaojie had frowned and motioned for him to continue, "Well, we march all over the shop, but get trains, right? And we don't bloody well swim to the colonies now, do we? So hard to consider they do different?"

"These things came out of them shells they shot at us though," muttered another soldier. Essex had sighed.

"First deployment, right, vanguard. Like, y'know, how the first troops to an area are the skirmishers? Then you bring the whole kit and kaboodle in later slow-time. Wagons, material, cannons. Bet you a tin of beans that thing will be hefting those bloody things elsewhere."

"But where," rumbled Zhaojie, troubled. He shook himself and sighed, "No matter. It is another piece of an already overcomplex puzzle. Our mission is to identify the source of the transmissions and to secure it."

Jiayi had taken that moment to return from her watch and squatted down next to Zhaoji in the ruined receiving room. The squad were spread across the building, some keeping watch, most others grabbing what sleep they could. She leaned in and whispered, "We have spotted messaging lights from Hackett. Deliberate signals, just visible. They were signalling all along the ridge in case we were not yet in position."

"Confirmation it is them?"

"Correct code and cipher use, yes," Zhajoie nodded and gestured for her to continue, "They are in position near the dome, ready to assault. This will likely grant us our own distraction. Are they good to go?"

The large Chinaman pondered and pulled his map free. He'd drawn an overlay across the city where the vast ship had ruined great chunks of it, shading that in black pencil. They'd marked buildings clearly occupied by the invaders. Currently, the main body of the northern defenders were fighting what seemed an endless stream of the _Lost_, further east. The sounds of ululation from the walkers and explosions from several discs they'd spotted flying that direction had given credence to the idea that the Martians were not as unassailable as they'd thought. The _Lost_ were fragile, but numerous. And also the Martians hadn't seemed to grasp the idea that noise was an issue. The loss of a walker had panicked them, on some level. Especially as it appeared to be unclear to the aliens whether it was a deliberate act or an accident. The patrols hadn't been looking for soldiers; instead they seemed confused, watching for things from the East.

He looked over the buildings and listened as another scout made a quiet report - one appeared to have some form of large mast, constructed by the aliens, atop it. That, it would seem, would be a good start. He knew telegraph masts and the wireless machines that Shen often spoke about utilised larger towers to project their "radio waves".

The risk was getting around the vast ship and then into the building. Especially with _thirty_ nigh invulnerable walkers potentially ready to spring.

Well not invulnerable. But he doubted they'd all be so obliging as to walking into coal-dust and explosive laden buildings, ships or minefields.

"Tell Hackett to assault the dome, the factory. Damage as much as possible, then withdraw. Clear identification of extraction."

Jiayi shifted, "The message stated retreat was unlikely…. They have the insect things to the south."

Zhaojie chewed his cheek for a moment and nodded, "Assault, secure a defensible position, but they do need to identify extraction. A two pronged assault may cause the enemy confusion."

Essex leaned forwards, "They may have to divert troops from the Lost expedition. Means we may be seeing some o' them queer walking corpses. Which means they're fighting on three fronts."

Zhaojie nodded, "We will need to move swiftly and try to enable communication with the south. Jiayi, I want them to establish a communication signal with us, so we can advise them on the move. If they can free prisoners, arm them, that may allow them to withdraw back east to the ship."

They conversed for another ten minutes, outlining the strategy - it was bare bones, which was stressful for all. No soldier likes operating on back-of-a-fag-packet plans. It's why you brief, you detail, you make sure everyone is _certain_. But they hadn't that luxury on an elongated partisan fighting role deep in enemy territory.

Jiayi vanished to send the message and Zhaojie roused the troops. He briefed them quickly, outlining routes and directions towards the suspected signal tower. He gave them fifteen minutes to prepare.

As the men geared up Zhaojie offered a quiet prayer to his ancestors, hoping they would guide his steps this night.

* * *

Hackett sat at a broken kitchen table, looking at his stained map as he listened to the signaller relay the message. He nodded slowly, then checked the sketches his foray troops had made of the near edges of the fort-dome.

"We've got a bloody great door that walkers stomp out of, as well as little doors for the prisoners and maybe guards. Reckon it's better we risk the little doors."

He marked out some points on the map, detailing sniper and Maxim gun cover. Demo troops for breaching the walls and door. Then squad to move and take out the tower guards before they all bum-rushed the building.

"What do we do about Walkers, boss?"

"Run like a milkman found by the man of the house," joked a trooper. The Sergeant snorted.

"Glad you confirmed your parentage Robertson. Not quite though. Demo team, need you to get us some bomblets ready. We split when one of those buggers stomps around, get into cover. Heat ray seems to have a harder time with stone if it doesn't focus. Some blast force from the heat it generates, but it needs to really focus on you. So, split, then demo lads, you flank and strap some of them bombs to one of its legs."

The men goggled at him, "Excuse me, sir?"

"Well, that or make it so you can chuck them and they blow up good. Take out a leg and the things are just fancy statues with a horn on top. We haven't got much in the way of artillery aside from some rockets, so those will likely have to be another option. But they're a bugger to aim."

He went through the queries and another soldier gulped and asked a question, "What about fallback?"

Hackett sighed through his teeth, "Not much, got them spiny bastards to the east. Initial fallback on retreat is to _here_ in the south of Gateshead. We regroup and replan from there. However, we need to push ahead, engage the enemy and secure a position inside that dome. Once inside we will be secure from Walkers _and_ aerial attack. Not to say it won't be an arse inside, but we remove the enemy's core advantage."

A few more basic queries and he then dismissed them to do final kit checks.

Thirty minutes later his men were spread between wrecked buildings, snipers high as they could go. More sharpshooters, really, with crossbows ready.

He glanced up at his signalman who raised a hand and did a silent countdown. Five seconds later he heard the faint "thunk" of a crossbow and saw a tower guard on one of the watchtower go down. These Chinese boys were quiet as anything and had, apparently, gotten close enough to the watchtowers to use the bow-weapons or knives. His snipers were merely overwatch in case they ballsed up.

Which they didn't.

The two nearest towers were clear, both guards downed on each. With a wave, the rest of the men broke cover and moved, fast, across the broken terrain. The platoon sprinted and reached the dome's outer wall. They waited, breath baited.

No siren. No alarm. Yet.

The Chinese contingent appeared, dragging the corpses with them. Hackett regarded the strange uniforms and welding goggles. One of the men pulled the goggles up and swore as they saw the misshapen eyes beneath. The Sergeant sneered, then frowned in thought."

"You two, get them big coats on, them hats and them goggles. Maybe we can do some misdirection…"

Moments later, four members of the breach team had a mishmash of the alien uniform on. A search of the pockets produced a strange metal rod. It looked like it fit a hole aside one of the access doors. Hackett chuckled, "Aliens use keys. Wonders never cease."

The door hissed open and the four disguised men went in first. The alien weapons had looked eerily familiar to human hands - all wood and metal. So these four carried those guns, their own slung across their shoulders as fallbacks.

Behind, the snipers stayed in position, with one maxim team closing the gap to set up a position on one of the towers, hunkering down.

Inside the building things were, to not put too fine a point on it, _creepy_.

The corridor split left and right and was lit by sickly green light. There was no visible light source, it just seemed to glow with an eerie corridor appeared to be some sort of ring around the internal perimeter.

"Do we split up?" whispered one lance corporal. Hackett shook his head and pointed at three men, then at the door.

"Secure it, provide cover if the maxim lads and snipers need to pull back this way. Rest of you, left corridor. Let's get into this arsing nest in iniquity and sin, righto?"

The men filed down the corridor, a man with a shotgun taking point. The men with the disguises were close behind and the group drew up short only a hundred yards down the corridor. A metal door stood there, with no apparent hinges. There was, however, another slot for the strange metal rod. Hackett nodded and the point man opened the door. The troops held their breath as the four men with disguises took tentative steps through. They heard the collective gasps and Hackett shouldered his way to the front and peered through.

He had to blink in astonishment. This place wasn't just a dome.

It was a _pit_.

A good two hundred yards tall to the top of the dome, the floor of the pit stretch down at least another three hundred below street level. Platforms jutted out, some floating, some supported by spindly lengths of metal, forming a strange network of ringed pavilions which grew smaller as they descended, like a telescoping inverted cone made up of sliced layers. Above and around the dome were strange green pods, similar to those they'd found in London; except these seemed almost organic, glistening like wet leather.

At the top of the dome a trio of green orbs glistened, looking like the eyes of a dragonfly. Large spindle arms emerged from great machines set into the seam where the domed roof met the vast walls of the structure, the whine of hydraulics constant as the vast arms reached across the chasm and moved hunks of metal from layer to layer, or machine parts.

Each level of the spiral was packed with humans, working at benches or hammering at metal. As they watched, an arm plucked a worker from their station and hauled the figure away. The human struggled briefly, then went limp. The arm spun and slammed the figure into an open pod. It hissed shut and the sound of whirring machinery was heart, along with the crunch of flesh and squelch of meat.

The man next to Hackett lurched as if about to hurl. The Sergeant hissed at him and gestured for the men to fan out of the corridor.

Their doorway led to another walkway that ringed the pit. It was a good twenty feet wide and was covered in pallets of alien metal and supplies. As they watched a human staggered back from their workstation and collapsed. An arm descended and prodded the prone form, then retracted. High above, one of the glittering green orbs hissed open and a white sphere dropped down. It unfolded itself, revealing a hideous mass of cyclopean flesh and tentacles. Purple light wreathed it for a moment, before it flashed to the body on one of the lower rings. There was a low moan, somehow audible in the bone, and the body stood up, lurching back to its station where it continued hammering.

The white sphere folded back up again and the orb rose back. The faceted green sphere folded itself back around the white one and the alien vanished from view.

Hackett squinted and looked lower. At the base of the pit a massive derrick rocked back and forth, churning out black bile from the earth, as well as liquid silt. Spider-like walkers shovelled the muck into vast vats which were connected to the walls. Pipes ran from them to the level they were on, far across the room, where solid chunks of metal emerged from tubes and were deposited into hoppers. On the other side of the pit base there appeared to be some sort of assembly area where finished components were being assembled into what looked like a walker. As they watched a green hood was placed over the copper monster's cockpit and the thing lurched to life, strutting onto a platform. The platform rose, bringing the death-dealing machine to their level, albeit on the far side of the vast room. It clanked towards the far wall, which split open, revealing the outside world for a moment. The machine disappeared outside, then vanished as the vast doors clanged shut.

Already more material was being passed from level to level, refining as it descended to the floor to be forged into yet another monster.

A voice made their squad turn. A figure was moving, flanked by two more, around the perimeter of the room. It appeared to have spotted one of the disguised troops, "Nyeda piza foo?"

The man glanced sideways at Hackett, who was hidden behind a stacked pallet. The rest of the squad was similarly hidden for the moment. The sergeant nodded slowly and gestured for the man to do _something_. He hadn't expected these humans to, well, not be speaking English. But then again, they had just seen someone they thought was one of their own.

The disguised soldier hefted his looted alien rifles and tapped his ear shrugging exaggeratedly. This did not have the desired response as the advancing figure, wearing a red long-coat and face obscuring helmet, stopped suddenly and raised its rifle, yelling "CLAPPON!"

The disguised soldier paused and cocked his head, then tapped his head again. This seemed to confuse the onlooker a little more and the flanking alien soldiers glanced at what was clearly an officer. Hackett suppressed a chuckle - Ruperts, the same the universe over it seemed. Clueless.

He gestured to the Chinamen who were sneaking around, using the pallets as cover. At his nod, they leapt out. A crossbow bolt took the furthest soldier in the throat. A knife man lunged from behind cover and grappled the other guard to the ground, shanking as he went. The officer turned, shocked, then spun back to the disguised guard. He managed a "Mor Balat-" before the purloined rifle of the disguised trooper tore into him.

The weapon didn't belch smoke or crack like a rifle. It thrummed and made a repeated _clack clack clack_, electrical flashes bursting from its barrel, firing like a Maxim gun.

The enemy officer tumbled backwards pinwheeling across the floor. The soldiers stared, dumbfounded. Then one spoke.

"I want one of those!"

A couple of men darted forwards and retrieved the fallen alien's weaponry whilst across the factory floor things started happening.

The closest humans, those still alive, turned to watch, shocked. The reanimated ones continued on and there were a fair few. The arms continued moving but the nearest ones juddered to a halt. More soldiers, spread across the perimeter and scattered across the manufacturing platforms, were turning and pointing towards the sound, confusion not yet turning to panicked action.

The disguised trooper looked around and gestured to his fellows. They all shared a glance, but approached. Then the man turned and waved at the other soldiers, then pointed further along the perimeter run, towards another door. A few of the soldiers further away seemed to nod and began to run towards the position.

Hackett blinked and looked at the trooper, which was Corporal Jacobs, and grinned at him, "Quick thinking that man, won't give us long."

The man nodded back, "Gotta play the part. Right you lot, let's try to pretend to be interested in finding some nasty rebellious humans."

The disguised troops made a mock showing of carefully advancing in full view of the rest of the factory. Some of the soldiers across the room were glancing their way, confusion apparent, but still comfortable. Hackett took the opportunity to spread his men around, carefully, under cover of the raised, solid railing and the stacked pallets of pods and metal slats. Some of the men were carrying long poles and satchels of conical tubes - the rockets. He'd even have the lads bring a mortar.

Just in case.

He checked and saw that the rings had stairways and bridges connecting them. He had a feeling that the workers would flee once things _really _hit the fan. He pointed at the team medic,

"Charlie, need you to start dragging the civvies this way when the fun starts. Make a racket, we'll cover you. If we can get a few, then maybe we can evacuate some."

Above one of the green spheres began to crack open again. A flicker of purple shimmered and suddenly all the soldiers were turning towards the impostors. Jacobs noticed and made a show of moving his men into cover, pretending to cover the far door, trying to keep up the deception. Hackett frowned.

The disguises weren't working. He wasn't sure how, but a tingle in his mind, like a knife drawn over stone, told him something was _wrong_. Above them, something hissed and he glanced up. Among the butchery pods he saw the familiar shape of an insectoid - bulbous grey head glaring daggers down at him. More emerged, some clasping tools and other implements.

Bloody maintenance crew, weren't they?

"Stand too lads! Let 'em have it Rockets on the bloody floating bollock things! Maxim, keep those bastards suppressed! GET TO IT!"

For a single moment the world was frozen, hanging. And then the humans gave a roar and opened fire. The first volley of rounds tore into the alien guards nearby, aimed shots felling those standing clear of workers, multiple rounds jinking the abominations and sending them tumbling over railings. One gave a scream that sounded almost German…

Maxim gun was planted on the railing and the crew opened up, firing heavy bursts up at the opening green sphere. Glass shattered and fell and the human workers began to panic, some ducking down and hiding. Their human guards ignored them and tried to find cover.

"Dur Lok! Butse! Do'Not!"

The shotgunners and chinamen were raking the pods with fire, making the Sectoids leap and squeal in their attempts to get clear. Several fell, thudding to the ground with hideous splats of grey-green blood.

Above the white sphere emerged from its shattered pod, the other two also beginning to open.

One of the enemy soldiers popped up ready to take a shot, but suddenly sprawled as a human lunged with a three foot long piece of metal clutched in _her_ hands. She shrieked defiance, her clothes filthy, stained with mud and sweat, then began to pound on the fallen soldier. Other cowering humans saw and scrambled to their feet, lunging for the distracted soldiers.

A few workers were fleeing, the soldiers around them firing indiscriminately through the crowd. A man fell, caught in the crossfire. That caused the crowd to surge in a different direction, some fleeing others turning on their jailors. Soldiers and workers tumbled over the sides of the factory rails, fighting as they fell.

Hackett spun and fired, reloaded, spun, fired again. Each shot aimed, but not all hitting. It was a melee, a mess of moving targets.

A whistle caught his attention, more mental than physical. Above them the orb was turning to focus in their direction. Across the factory, then reanimated humans stiffened, then turned and lurched towards the nearest gantries that would bring them across.

A man next to Hackett went down in a spray of blood as an enemy combatant caught a lucky shot. Charlie was stood far to his left waving a large white handkerchief, bringing the fleeing workers their way. But that was blocking good line of sight. The grizzled sergeant growled, frustrated, then turned and grinned nastily.

The rockets were racked on their launch rods. The demo trooper nodded at him and the fuses lit.

With a shriek, five rockets streaked up to the dome roof and exploded. Debris and glass sheared down and the orb seemed to _howl_. One of the unfolding green orbs detached from the ceiling and fell, dragging its white, spherical occupant down with it. The thing _squealed _like a stuck pig as it was born down by collapsing ceiling and its own outer pod. The green orb smashed against the uppermost ring of the factory and shattered. Something inside must've been pierced as electrical yellow lances of light arced about, and something _exploded_ within. Some of the animated dead shuddered and collapsed and the ring tilted, then collapsed, shearing off partly. The fell and caught the ring below, scattering soldiers and material.

There was a _whump_ as the mortar fired. The shells fuse had been cut down and it exploded in mid air, knocking the descending white orb off track and spinning it. The thing rumbled and focused, a lance of light bursting a soldier nearby into nothing more than paste. Hackett swore and their fire faded as men dove into cover. Along the path, people were streaming into the corridor beyond, getting away from the field of fire. Some joined Hacketts group, wild eyed and brandishing looted weapons, joining the fray. Others were still on the platforms, firing and finishing off the scattered soldiers.

All around, the arms were jabbing down trying to grab at people. But some of the workers were clambering up the arms, hammering at them in a frenzy with looted metal, others shooting them with alien guns.

It was pandemonium. The Sergeant peered over the lip of the railing and glared at the floating white sphere. It unfolded, spinning purple light around it.

"Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Focus fire on the ball-sack!" roared Hackett.

The Maxim gun and twenty men switched fire. The combined pressure of fire tore the thing to pieces, surprisingly quickly. The thing vibrated in mid air and detonated and another contingent of the advancing undead collapsed. Most were grappling with fleeing workers, or being grappled in turn.

The third green orb was now open, having been badly smashed. The third and final orb floated down slightly, only to be caught in a blossoming cloud of rocket fire. Hackett looked at his demo team and saw the lead man grimace, "Down to five more rockets, boss."

The Sergeant looked up and found the orb still floating there. It seemed the bastards were fairly resistant when all bunkered up. It literally _eyed_ him carefully, yhen shot up at a rate of knots,disappearing out of the roof. Hackett was about to cheer when a pair of disc-like things replaced it, descending through the wreckage. Across the way, the massive double doors creaked open and a new squad of troops, backed by three Mutons barreled in.

"Maxim gun, suppressing fire on the big buggers, sharpshooters too. Everyone else, focus on those flying plates!"

The last few workers not in the fray were out the back, being hustled through the corridor by the rear guard. He hoped his rear team wouldn't let them go charging out into the countryside, where those blessed walking razor blades were. RV point, he hoped.

He turned his attention back to the fray.

This was going to be _interesting_.

* * *

Zhaojie and his troops watched as smoke blossomed from the top of the dome. The walker that had emerged fro the plant was still advancing up the hill, oblivious, it seemed, to the chaos occurring behind it. That was… odd. And none of the other walkers had exited the vast, grey ship either.

He shouldered the massive maxim gun her carried and turned to his squad.

"I believe that's the best distraction we can hope for. Eyes forward, watch for patrols but keep as silent as we can. Use the shadows and the night. Essex, let's leave some explosives here, set for ten minutes. Give them something else to focus on. And maybe remind the Lost there are more exciting opportunities in the big city."

Essex blinked, "Did… did you just make a joke, sir?"

Zhaojie stared at him, "Do I appear to be the sort to make light of a situation?"

Jiayi smirked slightly, then left the cramped, wrecked dining room of their temporary shelter. Zhaojie could hear her whispering commands to their little troupe. He watched as Essex snorted. The soldier turned and grabbed another man; the pair began to pull sticks of dynamite from pouches, setting up another layer of "fun". He nodded to himself, satisfied, then turned towards the doorway.

It was time to go finish this.


	36. Chapter 34

Their advance was fast. The small troop moved from shattered building to ruined hall, the wide streets still littered with abandoned wagons and debris providing cover for their assault. Scattered about were signs of new construction - metallic walls shoring a building up here, a strange glowing doorway barring an attack down an alleyway.

To the south they could hear the explosions and chatter of automatic weaponry. A break in a building afforded them a brief view of the billowing smoke and the distant silhouette of a Walker advancing towards the building. Zhaojie cursed but shook his head, "We have to trust Hackett can handle one. The others are on the ship; we can at least stop them joining the fray, perhaps."

Movement above caught their eye: a white orb flew overhead, trailing sparks and dust. It paused at the rim of the vast metal vessel that loomed ahead and above them. Then it shot up, rising up the side of the ship, before then disappearing over the edge of the strange cuboid design.

"That cannot be good," muttered Jiayi. Next to her, Corporal Essex nodded grimly. The troop picked up the pace, but drew up short as rounds sparked off of rubble.

"_Clap'pon!"_

Ahead a makeshift bunker of alien metal opened up. It was partly concealed in the rubble, but afforded a good angle on the street; beyond was the Railway station and what seemed to be the communication hub that sat just to the prow of the strange ship which was now directly above them.

The ground shuddered and they all looked up, even as glowing yellow bolts whizzed past their cover. Above, the vast structure that was the ship was beginning to move. Nearby buildings shuddered and there was a wave of pressure that pushed some of the men down, swearing.

One of the more unstable office buildings rumbled and collapsed in a fountain of dust and brown-brick smoke. They could still hear the surprised shouts from the enemy and that refocused the men. Zhaojie hauled his Maxim gun from his shoulder and clamped it onto the debris in front of him, then opened up in controlled bursts, suppressing the bunker. He glanced at Essex and nodded to the flank. The Corporal returned the gesture and grabbed a couple of the soldiers and they stole off to the right, keeping low, then slipped into what had once been a grocers store.

Zhaojie then looked at Jiayi and flicked his gaze up to the left. She too nodded and vanished, dragging a sharpshooter with her. He spotted a pair of the enemy trying to sneak out of cover and swung his heavy weapon. A shriek tinged with a strange metallic reverb was his reward and his grin became feral. One of the men next to him, scuttled over, unhooking a new ammunition box and yanking forth a belt of bullets. The maxim clattered to a halt, steam rising from the main barrel as the water within boiled.

A new chain was affixed as the enemy opened up again, but their assault was cut short as a fizzing stick tumbled from a nearby storefront and into the bunker aperture. There was a shout of "_Tuukan Saf'ri!" _and the whole structure detonated. The metal held, only bulging out in parts, but smoke poured from the gaps.

A crack from above elicited a shriek from further beyond the devastated bunker and Zhaojie waved at his men, "MOVE!"

They advanced, pepper-potting between cover, the snipers above knocking down errant troopers who tried to bar their way. They were briefly pinned as a trio of rocket-monsters swooped out from a third story hotel window opposite the ruined train station, their fire inaccurate but broad enough to make them duck into whatever shelter they could. One of their aggressors was immediately felled, however, by Essex ducking out from a doorframe and taking a shot from directly below it. Zhaojie couldn't help but wince as the round sheared up and burst out of the horrors monstrous metal skull.

The other two split, giving up their momentary advantage, which allowed the platoon to open up on them, sending one reeling into the ground with a gory explosion and sending the third back into the ruined hotel.

High above, the sky was no visible as the vast ship drifted higher. It was a good two hundred feet above them now, getting smaller and it appeared to be turning, drifting… south. Zhaojie paused to glare at it, then felt a chill of realisation steal across him.

_London_? Could that be its destination? Thirty armoured walkers, maybe more, and who knew how many horrors… just bypassing the Grand Army?

But he could do nothing, instead pushing his men towards the bastardised building that seemed to bristle with strange dishes and pointed metallic poles.

As they closed in, Zhaojie could make out some additional details of the constructions beyond the reclaimed communications hub - flat platforms raised out of the demolished husks of some buildings, strange, disc like huts atop them. As he watched, a pair of these huts suddenly shot up, as if launched by an invisible spring. They hung in the air, then shot off, moving to flank the hulking barge above them.

"Flying machines?! More bloody flying machines?" Essex sounded angry and incredulous, "What next? Dinosaurs?"

One of the soldiers paused and glared at him, "Don't give the bastards ideas, you twerp...I mean, uh, Corporal."

Essex stared at the man, then barked a laugh, before launching himself out of cover, long-coat billowing as he kept his rifle up and ready.

They reached the heavy metal door that was set into the frontage of the comms building - it was a wholly new structure, all black metal and some sort of hardened ceramics and hard, flexible material. The troop regrouped around the entrance, taking up defensive positions. The building had no guard towers here. Safely ensconced beyond the perimeter they clearly relied on mobile patrols.

Around the building the area appeared more clear: rubble mostly cleared to form loading ramps and cargo holding areas, which had probably led to access points on the landed vessel. Now it was a mix of temporary fencing, stacked metal crates, empty coffin-like containers and abandoned spider-walkers. It appeared a fair few of the crew had cleared out. Zhaojie hoped that the sudden departure meant they hadn't emptied all the intel out of the hub, of course.

A sudden _crack_ drew his attention and he snapped his head round to see one of the marksmen aiming at a sole remaining disc, still sat on one of the landing-platforms. A sectoid was slumped near it. As he watched, another of the grey critters broke cover and dashed for the craft, but was likewise felled by the sniper. A thought formed in his mind.

"Jiayi, secure that vessel," She stared at him, then nodded. She beckoned to a few of the soldiers and they moved swiftly towards the craft, using cover and popping up to take shots at the odd insectoid that seemed to have been left behind. Zhaojie turned to Essex, "Get me a key, Corporal."

The Artilleryman grinned, "One skeleton key, coming up boss."

* * *

Well wasn't this fucking _peachy_. A bloody Tripod was strutting their way.

Hackett growled from his position of cover. He'd had the lads deploy the mortar and had them slinging nasty phosphorous and explosives all over the shop. But he was down eight men and two of those wouldn't be getting up.

Some of the civvies had chipped in and were holding their own. These hand held automatic weapons were bloody _lovely_. He had had some of his lads grab a few and it meant their immediate ammunition concerns were, at least for now, alleviated.

He winced as a plasma bolt singed his sideburns as it passed by his cover, then glared as a runner jogged up. The main was holding a wound in his side and winced as he squatted down, "Attack to the rear, sir. Fifty of those crawly things. Got 'em good with the maxim but Phil bought it. Had to put him down when he stood back up. And seems we've got them walking corpses inbound along the river. Sniper spotted 'em north of the river - they've broken past the outer guard this shower had."

Hackett weighed that. Maybe their ammunition would still be an issue then. But the bastards would likely be distracting these alien bastards as well, "How many?"

"Barry said, well, a _fuck tonne_. Reckon a good thousand when I yelled at him."

Yeah, ammo was going to be an issue.

At the far end he caught a glimpse of a muton pinwheeling away as one of the steam guns ripped it a new one, the iron bolt tearing the monstrous creatures arm right off. The room was hard to see, dust rising from the shattered balustrades and damaged platforms, as well as chunks of roof that continued to snap and fall.

High above, the disc-things had spread out and unfolded. That was why he'd lost another three blokes: they were _deadly_. They looked like flying _scorpions_ made out of sharp black metal, fringed with yellow light and white highlights. Beautiful and hideous.

The maxim gun had ruined one after the first man had gone down, but another disc had tossed a green orb that had blasted a sphere of green light around the maxim gunnery team; there'd been nothing left except half a gun and a set of cauterised entrails.

That had drawn twelve rifles and five shotguns on target and sent the thing reeling. It had folded back up and floated up and back, moving to a sort of "snipe" position above and behind the majority of the alien forces. It relied on its cannons, which raked their position regularly, forcing them to take snap shots or suppressive auto fire where they could. The third had just blasted and taken out another couple of lads and seemed determined to just take the punishment.

He knew their game - they wanted him to waste the rockets. He just _knew_ it. And it meant that the damn things had them suppressed, allowing more of the bastard hybrid arseholes into the building. They were making their way around the edges, moving through cover slowly. But they were encroaching.

At least the insectoid grey wankers were all dead. Their weapons were useless, but it meant they weren't being flanked by the sodding _cleaning staff_.

He took a risk and looked back at the runner, "Get the lads inside, pull back, seal that back door, blast it shut if you need. We'll hold here, hope those flaming dead bodies clog 'em up."

The man looked pale and a few of the others nearby glanced at each other. Hackett looked around and nodded, "Our stand lads! Let's show them that England's colours don't run, aye?!"

"Aye!" came the chorus. Another blast echoed across the way, carrying with it alien shrieks as another mortar round hit home.

"For King and country," growled Hackett as he rolled out of cover, rifle raised.

* * *

It was crude, but effective. The door buckled in and sagged. Of course, half the wall was gone too. It gave them more than enough room to pour into the strange building. Inside, they found two hybrids dead, clearly having been waiting near the door in ambush.

A pair of troopers with shotguns advanced ahead, sweeping. It seemed the room was clear on this floor. Strange machines dotted the room, connected by large cables that ran up walls and across the ceiling.

A man with a charge pack and a pair of pistols followed them through, then went the rest of the team.

They swept the ground floor, flushing out a pair of hiding sectoids, one of which they stunned. The shock batons were rather effective, allowing them to collar the strange grey thing. They'd been issued with strange crown-like pieces of equipment that seemed to stymie the strange grey creatures, making them dull.

Upstairs was a harder nut to crack - the main floor was a mess of overturned tables and detritus behind which hunkered five of the strange hybrids and at least one muton. They heard the bellows from the ground floor. A man who ventured up the stairs ducked back down as shots slammed into the wall above.

They held a brief discussion which Essex ended by shoving everyone against the far wall. Then he clambered up onto a table, paused for a moment, then affixed a set of dynamite to the ceiling. With the strike of a match he lit the fuse, then leapt away waving wildly at the door. The team got the message.

They all piled out and dust erupted from the building, coupled with a few alien shrieks and a pained roar. Zhaojie nodded and answered with a cry of his own, then barrelled back inside, maxim gun firing as he pushed back into the main ground floor room.

Three of the hybrids were clearly dead - hard to be alive when your torso and legs are fairly far apart. Two were dazed and the muton was _pissed_.

Zhaojie cut down one soldier with a sweep of his maxim; the other was cogent enough to dive for cover. Rounds spanged off muton armour and the beast roared, then charged. It swung its rifle, which seemed little more than a fused husk, at Zhaojie. The large man raised is own weapon to block the strike and he grimaced as the machine gun _crunched. _He felt himself slide back as the eight foot tall horror loomed at him. There was a shout to his right and a trooper entered the fray, sinking a bayonet into the beasts flank. The monster paused, looked down at the wound, then at the man.

Before it could react, Zhaojie swung his maxim in an uppercut that smashed into the muton's face mask. The beast reeled backwards and suddenly juddered as rounds sliced into it: eight soldiers emptying winchesters, shotgun rounds and Martini-Henry .45 into the creature.

It shuddered, then collapsed. The last Hybrid stood and then dropped his rifle, raising his arms. The shock trooper approached and jammed his baton into the creature's neck and the group watched as the man-thing fell.

"Well, that could be useful. Fan out, sweep and clear. See if these weapons are usable, let's try to find out target."

Their target found _them_ on the second floor. Near the main antenna room, a golden _thing_ came into being. It appeared behind Essex and clubbed him on the back of the head as he swept into the room. As he went down the thing brought its weapon to bear, only to shimmer and dive for cover as a buckshot blast caught it in the flank. It shimmered back to life behind a bank of consoles covered in blinking lights and fired a focused stream of plasma. The shotgunner caught it in the chest, but stood back up and fired again. His armour was smoking, but held; his shot hit the console, which exploded in a shower of sparks and the creature flickered and moved away.

Zhaojie was up on the floor moving with his team as they chased the creature through the strange quartet of rooms that surrounded the central spire that rose through the roof and became the antenna above.

The thing was fast, jittery. A man went down as it flickered in front of him and fired, point blank, into the man's face. It dodged aimed shots and Zhaojie realised it was toying with them. Anticipating them somehow. And these things could, perhaps, read minds. Was it doing that? Or just leading a merry dance.

He glanced out a window and spotted Jiayi and her group, holding firm next to the craft they'd secured. As his men exchanged shots in the next room he moved to the window and waved, then went through a complex series of hand gestures. He watched Jiayi repeat the sign language and he gave a short series of commands - street sign; how to communicate subtly. Not many complex meanings but he got his intent across.

He yelled for his men to fall back and they pulled back, past the ruined hole in the floor, to the stair well. The gold, glittering shape seemed to follow but hand back. Zhaojie beckoned to the shock-trooper and divested the man of his backpack and lance / baton. Combo. Then he charged into the room.

The creature hadn't expected that and jinked left. Zhaojie feigned a strike and the thing jinked again. Ok, so it responded to obvious moves, but seemed to be able to do that for multiple opponents. One on one - more predictable.

But that went both ways.

He manoeuvred it until it was visible through a window. Then it flickered as a rifle _cracked_ from outside. The window exploded as glass shattered, but the thing wasn't there. It materialised against the wall next to the window, obscured from view from outside, and also flanking Zhaojie.

Which is what he had expected - it had the choice of moving into the other room where his men were, to a wall in view of the window, or _behind him, against the wall._

So, as it flickered, as the window exploded, he'd spun and lunged. The thing materialised and he'd adjusted his thrust, the lance connecting as the creature raised its rifle. There was a green flash and Zhaojie blinked.

The creature was gone. On the floor in front of him was a symmetrical crystal, glowing orange. He glanced behind him and saw a scorch mark next to the door that led into the other room and he realised the skin on his left cheek was stinging.

What were the odds?


	37. Chapter 35

Men will tell you war is glorious; that it's about honour and bravery. That it's fought for noble ideals of country, patriotism, maybe even ideals of ethics or beauty. Some are honest and say it's about money, about power.

What they won't tell you, even if they really know, is that war is gruelling. Bloody. Hell. Churned fields, watered with blood. The weeping of dying men, whimpering for wives, mothers, lost loves.

And before that, the interminable waiting. The silences. The point beyond which the adrenaline fuelled anticipation has ended and instead the hollow impatience of inevitability looms over everything.

They were ready, the troops having pushed south and then west out of holdouts in London and the various counties. Riders, messenger birds, even the odd still-functional telegraph had managed to drag the troops together. They'd rendezvoused with the Royal Marines north of Portsmouth and now a contingent of Officers gathered in a small makeshift HQ ten miles southeast of Horsell. Artillery could be heard thumping, a preliminary barrage from several split batteries. In the command tent the cluster of officers loomed over a splayed map. At the fore, the 2nd Duke of Cambridge, Prince George. Field Marshal of the British Army. To his right stood Colonel Tasseter and his left General Arthur James-Herbert, the Quartermaster General of the British Army. A few more Brigadiers and other luminaries dotted the room.

The Prince was frowning at the map. Stacked nearby were various noted orders and written up plans, drafted by General Marter back in London. Notable were the additional suggestions and directions handed out by Colonel Anderson.

"This is bally silly," grunted the Prince. Next to him Tasseter nodded, "An entrenched position, fine I'll grant them that, perhaps even superior artillery to a _point_. But frankly, brute determination and the steely discipline of the men will see them through."

A cough from across the table drew his glare. A Lieutenant Colonel of the Royal Marines stood there, and returned the gaze coolly, "With all due respect, Your Highness, their weapon ranges are frankly a hard stop for any advance. A traditional infantry move will result in more casualties than can carry the day."

Tasseter snorted, "So we sweep with cavalry while you ditch diggers plod along then."

The Royal Marine allowed his gaze to slide to Tasseter and he gave him a very visible once over. Clearly he found it wanting and snorted, "Never actually met the foe, have you, Colonel?"

Tasseter bridled, "I very well know what we are up against and they are to be found wanting."

The Royal spread his glance around the room. Interestingly, on his side of the table, the officers all seemed more careworn - their uniforms dustier, their eyes harder, "Well, when your horse shies away and your shiny boots get caked in mud while a fifty foot tall monster sets fire to your men, then I'm sure your little toothpick will be very imposing. Or perhaps when the ground explodes and a thing made of claws rips your horses belly open and turns your men into walking corpses fresh to spew more hellspawn out? Or maybe when your own men start shooting each other?"

He delivered this in a calm manner, keeping his eyes focused on Tasseter. The Cavalryman was not one to baulk at a challenge but when he fixed on the Marine's eyes he couldn't help but shudder. Those eyes had seen hell. Recently.

The Prince looked between the two, "Are you done, Charles? Yes, I've read the notes, heard the reports. I will grant, seeing what I have seen in London that things are… fanciful if true. But the scale seems impossible. An entire army _within England_ without the means to get here, beyond some tiny meteors? Really!"

The Royal Marine, Charles, looked back at the Prince, "And yet our army is in disarray, scattered and only now regrouping. Several cities burning. How can you explain it sir?"

"I will not have morale impugned like this Charles. Restrain yourself, please. We are here to discuss the solution, not the source of the issue."

Charles nodded. An Artillery Major piped up then, "Sirs, the barrage should be softening the outer perimeter, as was detailed by reconnaissance. We haven't got much more in depth detail of their interior layouts, dispositions and the like. We are raising observation balloons shortly, so will have a better vantage. The current barrage will allow further artillery to be emplaced and, as per advice from the Naval liaison and the Orders from Colonel Anderson, we're spreading the batteries out as best we can."

Tasseter sneered, "Spacing them out? Inefficient, means the ammunition chain will be stretched. I say consolidated, allow for easier barrage power, ease of command and control, more shells on target faster."

The Artilleryman now frowned, "Distance is not a problem, sir. We have signallers attached. And each battery has its own independent chain. Consolidation means one solid target that is vulnerable."

The Prince rallied, "But one battery is easier to defend from the front and flanks. We risk diluting our thrust…"

The debate went back and forth. Slowly, the majority of Anderson's suggestions and Marter's orders were chiseled away. Eventually a plan was formed, changed from the original - a thrust, as originally foreseen - a push north, into the heart of Horsell common. But where this differed from Anderson's plan and Marter's was that instead of several concurrent thrusts to split the enemy line, this was a solid push of infantry, cavalry to flank from the south, intent on sweeping the enemy infantry who would be bogged down with the infantry force and a devastating artillery barrage.

The Prince looked satisfied, condeeding only a few points - the artillery split he allowed for the most part, but insisted the "bigger guns" be consolidated and defended. However, he flat out refused to make use of the "confounded barbaric weaponry" that a certain "Master Shen" had provided, beyond the armour and some ammunition improvements.

That sentiment was not shared by Charles Fortisque however. He'd been with Anderson in Portsmouth, been fighting these monsters for weeks. So, he decided to make a "strategic decision" along with his fellow veterans, once they left the command tent.

Their group set off for the quartermasters tent and set up a little meeting of their own. There were three infantry colonels, the artillery major and a pair of quartermaster officers. Charles sat on a pile of grain sacks and harrumphed.

"Bloody fools. Disaster and ruin, that's the course. A field of dead men and platitudes."

The mood was sombre and the artilleryman piped up, "We also have a few thousand rockets, but I didn't mention that, as honourable lord Tasseter wouldn't know what to do with one…"

An infantry Colonel chuckled, "He might get the wrong idea…."

That cheered them up, the chuckles alleviating the atmosphere. Then they turned to Charles. Another infanteer spoke, "What are we to do, then old boy?"

He stroked his moustache and sighed, "It appears we have been pushed to the fringes - the London regiments are leading the infantry charge, whilst we have been relegated to flank duty and battery defence. I feel we may have the better offering. However, I do believe the overall plan is _sound_. Gentlemen, we have our orders… in the round at least. How we go to it on the ground, I believe we have some more flexibility The original plan called for a divide and conquer, to prevent the enemy from using its advantages en masse. I think perhaps, with some creative deployment of our reserves, we may be able to at least create the _illusion_. And without, necessarily, breaking our orders. If we are challenged I will accept full responsibility and hand myself to the bloody Provost myself, damn their hides."

The men chuckled, but nodded. The Artilleryman spoke, "we can easily switch targets on the larger guns, spoof some walking advances to the other flanks. And the further guns can hit further. Should cause some more consternation. Rockets might be good for them flying bastards as well, according to my Sergeant major - we just need to trim the fuses after a few volleys."

They all shared glances and then one man pulled a map from a satchel bag. They unrolled it on the QM's fold out table. Charles shared a look with all of them, "Let's hope it is enough."

* * *

_The Catastrophe of Horsell Common_

_British Army routed_

_Massacre of Mankind?_

_Yesterday afternoon the British Army attempted an all out assault on the entrenched forces of the foreign invaders, who have set their eyes on the jewel of London and the Heart of the Empire._

_Seven Divisions of Infantry and four Cavalry Divisions were deployed in the initial fray, under the watchful gunnery of fifty batteries of Artillery._

_However, the Invader counter-assault proved swift and decisive. Only foresight by experienced Army commanders to reinforce the flanks and disperse the guns allowed for an orderly withdrawal. The Ministry for War is refusing to release current casualty figures, but witness testimony from on the ground and reports from apparent "withdrawing troops" indicates a near route, with the potential loss of three full divisions of Infantry, upwards of 30,000 men, as well as one full Cavalry division._

_This report is currently deemed conjecture by the Ministry. A spokesman stated that the assault was currently underway and reports to the contrary could be construed as damaging to public morale. It is the opinion of this News Paper that it is in the interest of the public to be aware of risk to life and limb of the common subjects of Her Majesty. This may be our final edition, as we fully expect retribution from the Office of the Provost Marshal as the Country is, apparently, under martial law._

Anderson was vibrating with rage. He stared down at the paper, splayed on a desk in front of him. Around the room officers, engineers and an unusually quiet Bradford watched him, awaiting a reaction _any_ reaction.

"The damn fools. Those damnable _fools_," he finally hissed, his hands clenching hard. A door to the main command room creaked open and Doctor Vahlen entered. Her eyes locked on the hunched Commander and her lips pursed. She looked around the room, huffed and strode over. Gently she reached out and gripped his forearm.

It was like a grounding rod in a storm. The tension in the man flowed out and he slumped slightly, head shaking. The room seemed to relax ever so slightly.

Anderson looked up and met Vahlen's cool gaze, "Doctor."

"Commander," she glanced at the newspaper and sighed.

"Quite. I suspect the reality to be worse. Our men on the ground managed to dispatch transmission via the wireless system. Old Charlie… well he salvaged what he could it seems. Actually got the _bastards_ bogged down, literally. Saved over half the artillery emplacements and is pulling back the remaining troops to secondary emplacements. An assault and we _lose_ ground."

Vahlen's grip tightened and she gave Anderson a once over, "A bath. Breakfast. Now."

"I am needed here, to control.

"_William_," Her voice brooked _no_ argument. He deflated. Bradford managed a wry grin from across the room. There were some chuckles, but they were good natured.

Vahlen released her grip and stepped back, smoothing the blazer that covered her blouse and gave a slight cough. Anderson gave a morose chuckle and looked down at himself, "Smell that bad, eh? Well, why didn't you lot say anything?" he chided the room, trying to go for brevity.

"Wouldn't dare, sir!" came a voice safely from the shadows of a set of cork-board easels. Anderson shook his head, then shrugged.

"Bradford, I will retire to the mess for an hour. You have control. Anything further?"

"Seems the Prince was… one of the casualties sir."

The mood in the room seemed to be going for sombre, but no one could quite manage it. There was a muttering of "Good news at last then," but it faded with a glare from Anderson.

"Every casualty is a tragedy, no matter how much of a buffoon they might be. Bradford, ensure Marter is informed and send a runner to the Palace. Let's see if we can't get ahead of the wave. I want a write up of what happened for review as soon as we know more."

"Sir, yes sir!" chimed Bradford, sincerely. Anderson strode for the door and found Vahlen alongside him.

"Doctor?"

"I am going to make sure you do as you are told," she kept her gaze ahead of her. Anderson stepped out into the cool morning air and chuckled.

"What, offering to scrub my back?"

"If that's what it takes to make sure you aren't a suicidal idiot, then yes."

Anderson stumbled slightly, his bluff seemingly having been called and he coughed, "Madame!"

She paused and frowned at him, "You can hardly prosecute _die krieg_ without correct rest and recuperation, _Herr Anderson_. I see that I must force it upon you."

"Ah, professional interest," he tried to not sound disappointed. Why was he disappointed? That she'd outmanoeuvred him in their daily dialogues and parry-riposte banter? He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward, her face set in that near perpetual frown of hers.

Once more he was reminded about how striking she was; her brown hair almost grey in the light. She nodded, her nose and chin in profile, pointed but dainty to his eyes. Her bearing strong and upright, "Of course. Without you, I fear we crumble."

He looked ahead, missing the flexing of her throat. But he heard the muttered "_blodhammel"_.

"I think I know that one. _Stupid idiot?_"

She coloured suddenly and shot him a look, "Since when do you _versteht deutsch?"_

"Since I thought it useful to understand the people I ca…. Command, Doctor," They continued in silence, entering the mess. The Doctor watched as he made his way to the bathrooms. He gave her a lopsided smile, "As you can see, I am obeying Doctor's orders,"

Her gaze unnerved him slightly. She usually only used that when studying the subjects in her labs in the converted hospital complex. It was as if she had seen something new. He felt the gaze bore into him. She nodded curtly.

"I will ensure you have breakfast ready. _Steig in die Badewanne._"

He was beginning to notice she slipped into German when focused, flustered or just irritated. Which meant she really should just be speaking it more often. He gave an uncertain nod and, feeling like a chastened school boy, slipped into one of the vacant bathrooms.

The tub filled rapidly with lukewarm water and he added some meagre soap-flakes. He stripped the uniform off, folding the trousers and white shirt carefully, hanging the jacket on a provided hanger. The bathrooms were very austere - white plaster walls, tiled floor, wooden benches and a rudimentary coat hook. The bath was set against a wall, the door to the left. He eased himself into the water and felt a wave of weariness suddenly crash onto him.

Ever since the men had headed north he'd been working. Dispatched, what, three, four days prior? The week had been hectic, all preparation, final dispatch of troops by carriage and functional trains. Mad-houses, meetings back and forth. Marter and Smythson, who had been at least brought into the loop on the perimeter defences of London. His troops, their distinctive long-coats and face-scarves, had been a boon, freeing up more men for the front. They were a silent lot, but clearly professional. Smytheson had said they were mostly mercenaries, luckily on a stop-over before a further deployment to South America, now likely to never happen. Clearly they had been retained for nefarious dealings in the dark interior of the Americas. But now they had been requisitioned to more noble tasks.

The door clanked open and Anderson heard the rattle of China. Part of him said he should be awake, pistol in hand - nowhere was safe, nowhere secure. But he was tired. Tired of the months prosecuting this debacle of a war; tired of reading casualty reports, of overseeing more deep dives into the abandoned underground of London to fish more kidnapped and maddened souls from engines of macabre violence and unknown torture. These past few days he had maybe slept once, for three hours. Which, piled onto fitful nights over the past few weeks had led him to a bad bad place.

His dreams were tainted with gurgling lumps of flesh that writhed with tentacles, cyclopian eyes staring at him whilst their utterances bled into a chuckle-like warble. A bulbous grey head with pitch-black eyes had regarded him coolly, but with a strange sense of _hate_.

And..._jealousy?_

And behind them a dim figure, robed in red and gold.

Every night he had awoken, drenched in sweat. He'd nearly taken to the cocaine to keep himself going; he knew several of the other officers were resorting to it; better that than the dimmed senses of opium pipes.

The sound of feet reminded him of the presence in the room - Mess staff delivering tea or breakfast. Nothing if not efficient. He tried to open tired eyes but he was already feeling half asleep, even in the tepid water. He managed a vague wave.

"Leave it… on the bench. Thank you. Just, resting."

A splash jerked him awake and he saw an arm dipping something in the water. A very _female_ arm, sleeves of a white blouse rolled up.

"Lean forward, _bitte_."

He did, his brain on autopilot. He felt a surge of water down his back, along with the glorious scrape of a sponge. Fingers kneaded at his shoulders, taut and pained. He hadn't noticed it. Now the tension seemed to be being wrestled out of him by determined fingers.

"_Dummkopf._"

"Should I take off-"

"_Hush_," He did as bade and leaned back slightly with a groan. Part of his brain reminded him he was currently naked whilst a member of his staff was clearly able to see other staff-like-members. He jerked slightly and the grip on his shoulder tightened, "Do not be a baby. I have brothers. I have seen worse."

He blushed. He, a veteran of Afghanistan, India, South Africa, _blushed_. Never had a woman had him at a disadvantage. The fingers flexed again and he groaned, "Ah, well, so."

"Hush."

"Why?"

He felt her hand flex and realised she had shrugged. He frowned, but she spoke, "I meant it. Without you, this fails. I do not like failing, William. I do not want _you_ to fail. So, if we fail, we do so _together_."

Her voice carried a note, a determination. He risked a glance up, his vision still slightly fatigued. His eyes met hers and he blinked. Her gaze was intense. He didn't recognise the emotion. He knew how to flirt, how to charm.

But under that gaze. Well, he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Resisting it was one such endeavour.

"I….. believe I understand…?"

She frowned, her forehead creasing, "I do not think you do, _Herr Anderson_."

"I think we're a tad past formalities, mad- _Moira_."

He waved a hand at the water and managed a partial smirk. He was rewarded with a faint colouring as her eyes treacherously flashed down and then back to his. Her lips pursed.

"Indeed… but it is still true that we fail if you fail. I cannot allow myself to fail, so I will not allow you to do so."

He sighed and slumped. Was that gaze just that the? "Keeping tabs on _EXALT _investments, Doctor?"

Her breath hissed from between clenched teeth and her grip tightened briefly. Anderson winced slightly then he heard her move, straighten. Heard the brief cough, more a hitch of breath. His hindbrain kicked itself into gear as he felt her move away and his hand sloshed out of the bath and gripped at hers as she moved towards the door. She froze.

"_Dummkopf," _she hissed, His grip tightened.

"_Liebschen,"_ he replied. Her body shuddered suddenly. His grip slid down her forearm, to her wrist, then to her hand, "Stay, please." He managed those words at least.

She wavered for a moment, then moved back to the stool next to the bath. He released her hand, reluctantly, then felt her hands on his shoulders against, breaking the tension there. He reached up, shaking and took one of them and squeezed. She squeezed back and he felt lips press against the crown of his head, feather-like, barely touching.

He exhaled as his shoulders were soaped and cleaned, water running over his chest, across the scars and blemishes. He felt her apply a lather to his face and, for the first time in a decade, felt the scrape of a razor held by someone else as she shaved his faint stubble away. The silence wasn't awkward, just companionable.

As he felt her wipe the last vestiges of soap from his face with a warm towel, he felt his eyes slowly close, finally finding peace. Safe. Secure. Protected.

He awoke to find himself in bed, wearing a robe. His uniform hung on a rail in the open closet near the bed. He remembered faintly drinking the tea proffered to him and managing a slice of toast after being helped, groggily, out of a bath. His head felt woozy, fogged by sleep. But it wasn't the swaying-near-drunk feeling of prior days. This was the "I need a little more time"; but his faculties felt more functional. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around the room, realising he was alone. He felt a pang of sadness. And that then led to the next thought: what had _actually_ happened?

A colleague helping an ailing fellow? Comfort for a jaded man? A Doctor looking out for a friend?

Were they friends now?

Were they more?

That last one gave him mild palpitations. He'd always been a bachelor, never settled. Army man, no ties. Travelling the world. There'd been liaisons, actual dinner dates even. He'd escorted a young lady down the pier at Brighton once, even.

This was certainly a slight shift in protocol. And he was utterly stumped. Defence of the largest city in Europe? Fine. Fighting fifty foot tall metal monsters that could set you on fire from a mile away? Child's play. Spiffing even.

Work out the thinking of a terrifyingly focused German woman. No _Swiss_ German woman….

_Well I'm buggered six ways to Sunday._

He sagged back into the bed, feeling like a man in his twenties again. Heady. Terrified. Facing the first charge in some foreign field. Drunk in the mess, laughing.

Well, first things first - plan of attack. Come up with a strategy. He had one main objective here.

_Don't Fail._

And with that, he swung his feet out of bed and began to get dressed. He had a war to win.

* * *

To call the whole thing a bally mess was the kindest way. And the worst thing, the absolute _worst_ thing?

Anderson had been sodding _right_.

The counter-jumping toerag, common as muck interloping, brown nosing, treacherous buffoon had been _right_.

Tasseter wanted to scream, wanted to howl at the unfairness of it all. Instead he cowered in the crater, surrounded by dead men and the whimpers of the dying. He held his malacca cane in both hands and bit down on it, grinding and whimpering his rage into the effort. They should, he realised, have spread out, not allowed the enemy to shoot them in a barrel.

The plan should've worked - a fantastic barrage worthy of God himself. It should've broken their lines, mulched their forward positions. And indeed, it had.

But it just meant their advance got slowed by churned and wet soil. The infantry had slowed at the edge of the blasted column. A thrust ten thousand men wide and five times as deep.

It hadn't meant anything when five of the tripods had stood up far behind the line of the barrage, a mile back. And incinerated the front line easily. They hadn't even deployed a forward force of troops as far as the local commanders had seen. Tasseter had been sat with the Prince, taking tea, observing from an elevated platform, via binoculars. That had lasted until the tripods made their appearance and the Prince had panicked. He told Tasseter to head to the front _immediately_; to seize control and push the advance.

Which meant he was a good mile away when he'd seen the rockets smash into the headquarters and rear-most tents. Black smoke and flames billowing.

He'd been spared. But he'd pushed forward, his escort and aides with him, all driving their horses to the front at breakneck speed.

The air was thick with whistling artillery as behind them several batteries received counter-fire, disappearing in columns of green flame and harrowing squeals of metal and man. They'd pushed east and north to where the cavalry had begun their charge. He'd charged into the forward command tent to try to gain control but found that things had descended into a melee.

And then the chittering horrors had struck - rampaging out of the blasted forest, sending horses fleeing and spreading chaos among the troops who didn't know whether to charge behind the advance of the Cavalry, corral the horses or just fight the towering horrors. Spindly things that looked like chitinous centaurs, accompanied by creatures that looked like strange shambling lobster-men.

They'd fought them off, only to see some of their fallen rise and explode into more monsters. Tasseter had rallied what men he could to escape the reserve lines and push into the advance - they couldn't fall back now; committing was the only option, a strike now they'd weathered the advance.

Oh how wrong he'd been. How _very_ wrong.

Things came from the sky, trailing grey smoke and laughing as they swooped in, spraying death and green fire. Grey things had leapt from tree to blasted tree, firing down. He saw his men slash at one another in fear and in some cases _intent_. And then hulking green forms had shoulder barged horses off their feet and crushed neighing necks with a single stomp.

He'd forced them on, carbines dragging targets from their air and trees, charging slashes of sabre managing to fell some of the brutes.

And then they were on the common. He'd dragged two hundred men from the reserve, following two thousand cavalry. He arrived with thirty five still able to fight. They found a charnel house of flame, smoke and violence.

Men fought with things from nightmares - spinning discs of metal that unfolded into scorpions in mid air; hulking creatures that dragged men from horseback and punched them into the soil and then _kept punching_. Spider-like walkers that grabbed and flung men about like rag-dolls. Spindly men that wove through combat like dancers, slashing and stabbing with long blades, or firing precise shots like duellists, their inhuman grace unnerving to watch.

But Tasseter was from a bloodline that had glory bred into it. You did not back down, did not show the foe your back.

He gave a cry and spurred his horse on, the beast foaming at the mouth, ears back and eyes wide with terror. But it had been trained well and ploughed on. He slashed from left to right, cutting down, bringing spurts of green-yellow blood as they waded into the melee. Men piling onto Mutons with bayonets, firing their last rounds at point blank as the weapons jammed into flesh; snake-men pinned by mud-encrusted infantry whilst another soldier battered their heads in with the butt of a rifle; a grenade blasting a thing from middair; a skittering insect monsters felled by a lance wielding Household Cav man, his plume fluttering from a dented helmet, uniform soaked in all manner of blood.

And then one of the walkers had entered the fray, blasting furnace heat across the battlefield. Men and alien died in shrieking fire as the thing bathed the ground with shimmering heat. Then there was the whistle of artillery and the machine had sagged suddenly, stumbling. Its massive four pronged feet had sunk into churned mud and it found itself staggering, unable to adjust as more shells exploded around it. The Artillery had given up on "safe support" and were just targeting the walkers it seemed. Someone had given them new orders, it appeared.

Fortisque?

Tasseter would deal with that later. Deviation was dangerous, sowed confusion among the men. But, he had to admit, it was doing a jolly good number on the toppling machine. Until another salvo erupted further into the battlefield - dark streaks that flew fast and true. The friendly artillery barrage ceased and the wounded machine righted itself. Tasseter reigned his horse in and stared up at the grey-green metal hulk, dented and sparking, but still standing. A funnel to the fore levelled at him, the dragon-fly green canopy of the hood like a pair of insectile eyes.

And then it lurched backwards, the hood shattering as something slammed into it. The air stank of electrical energy and Tasseter wheeled around to see a crew of men manoeuvring one of that infernal Chinaman's devices. It looked like a cannon, except sporting more strange protuberances and wiring. It whined and fired again, sending an actinic bolt of electricity over Tasseters head. He turned and saw the fighting machine judder as the bolt connected with the shattered canopy. Inside the machine something flashed and it exploded from the inside. His horse reared and he felt himself fall. As he struggled up from the mud he saw his horse cantering back, away into the trees. The squad of men and their strange weapon were gone, lost in the fight. Dead or having moved on to new targets he didn't know.

A figure lurched out of the smoke - a bloodied snake-eyed maniac. One of the figure's arms hung, useless. The other wielded a broken knife, which had probably been a sword. The thing hissed and lunged.

It felt like an age. He'd fenced in his club in London, partaken in some training at the barracks - which meant supervising the men mainly. But Tasseter was not an unfit man. And yet his muscles were screaming at the end, his breath haggard.

The creature was dead, likely from blood loss than from a mortal wound. He'd gotten a couple of lucky shots in due to wide strikes from a clearly crazed monster. It, likewise, had wounded him: his leg was streaming blood from a thin cut and he had a shallow wound on his upper left arm. If he'd gone up against an unwounded foe? He felt bile rise in his chest.

The fight was more spread out now; white smoke obscured much of the battlefield and the sound of artillery was more distant. Above, abominations soared and dove into the fray, chortling and shrieking as they swooped in and out.

He staggered towards what looked like a line of men, but which turned out to be a row of corpses slumped over a fallen log. Chitinous corpses and dead Insectoid bodies surrounded them, along with a pair of sprawled mutons. He moved further along, feeling the ground thump as another fighting machine thundered off in the distance. Through the gloom he could make out more men firing, fighting. But right now he was in some sort of eye of the storm.

The arrival of a white orb, engaged in a running battle with a squad of infantry sent him charging. He joined the fray, mind reeling with bloodlust and mania. He yanked a discarded rifle from a corpse, his own sidearm having been lost in mud. Aim, fire, eject, reload, aim, fire, eject, reload. He advanced on the sphere, firing regularly whilst the infantry ducked into cover behind burnt out stumps or craters. The thing seemed to turn away much of the rifle fire. It vibrated and a bolt of energy blasted apart a stump and the man behind it. A lucky round glanced off the eye-socket of the thing and it floated up with a hiss. Then it unfolded, revealing a lumpen, misshapen thing within. Tasseter staggered as purple light coruscated out.

And then the corpses around them all stood up.

That was the moment he broke. His rifle trembled and his adrenaline failed, his body becoming a quivering sack. He felt it flood away as if pushed out by another force. He whimpered and threw the rifle aside, staggering away.

He fled. How long he ran he wasn't sure, but he tripped along the way and tumbled into a deep crater.

And there he sat, surrounded by the dead and dying. Darkness had fallen and faded once. Through the night he'd heard mechanical sounds of evisceration, shrieks of pain, guttural cries of victory and the mechanical stomp of walkers.

But that had faded as the enemy had cleared the field, maybe pushed on. Sleep had been fleeting, fitful.

Until a Muton had collapsed into the crater, missing most of its head. Tasseter had stared at it, confused, then looked up at the lip of the crater. There was a mechanical clank and the hiss of steam, followed by a _chink_-_choonk_! Of something being loaded. Then a sound that felt more like a low base tone. In the distance there was an explosion.

Well if he was going to die, he was going to do it on his own bally terms! Like a man possessed he began to scramble up the slimy, muddy walls. His leg was stiff and sore, the bleeding stopped but infection likely setting in. His left arm nearly useless. With a whimper he yanked himself over the lip, a retrieved pistol clutched in his right hand.

The sight in front of him was strange. A squat machine, but not obviously martian. It looked like some sort of plough, like the cattle-prow at the fore of a steam train, only scaled up. As he watched, a gun barrel rose over the top of the plough and fired. It didn't sound like a conventional gun, instead emitting a booming _thrum_ like he'd felt in the crater.

With the hiss of steam, the strange prow-vehicle rumbled forwards. A man stepped out from behind the prow and spotted him, then called out to the men behind. More troops emerged from what Tasseter realised was clearly a shield of some sort. These men all wore the armour designed by that Chinese fellow.. Hands grabbed him and hauled him backwards whilst more checked the crater.

Beyond the prow, he realised the thing was some sort of steam tractor, except with strange linked treads over the wheels. It towed a trailer on which was mounted the strange gun. The prow itself was mounted on what looked like a strange crane which looked for all the world like one of the tripod leg joints.

A man peered at him, frowning, taking in his uniform, "An officer, eh laddie?"

Tasseter peered at him, "I am a Colonel of The Royal Dragoon Guard and you will address me as such. I am taking command of this unit, to execute the orders of his royal high-"

"Shut it?" came the rebuke, delivered matter of factly, "I'm Colour Sergeant Macclesfield. And you are wounded and in no condition to be swinging that wee pencil you call a dick a bout, y'hear me?"

"How… how dare you! Who do you think you are?" Tasseter was only vaguely aware of someone applying something to his wounds. A quick glance made him do a double take - a _woman_ was there, in uniform? With a rifle?!

The Colour Sergeant leaned in, enjoying the wince of pain on the Colonel's face as the medical gelatin was applied, "Who are we? We're fookin; EXALT, ya wee baby."


	38. Chapter 36

"What is the situation?"

Zhaojie had his Corporals marshalled on the ground floor of the captured communications structure. Outside, Jiayi's snipers were keeping the probing attacks of the remaining enemy garrison at bay. It appeared that the majority had departed with the vast ship and the strange escort ships. He'd heard the men refer to them as _saucers_ \- because they could imagine balancing a colossal cup of tea atop them, perhaps.

Corporal Essex spoke up first, "Situation to the south is shite, to be perfectly honest boss. Dust, fires, a fair few Mutons and those squirrelly human-like bastards. And that walker is trying to get to the front of the dome."

Jacobs harrumphed, "Yeah and then we've got the bloody dead walking down the river, headed towards them. None come this way, so reckon most of the Martians are still on the perimeter up here, holding the line. Don't even know we're here, probably."

Zhaojie frowned, "No communication at all? We know they can…"

"So much going on, maybe thought the main assault is to the south. And looks like maybe their command element has gone. Nothing here looks dressed like staff, or officer-like. Even the human ones," Essex shrugged.

"We know not how their leaders attire themselves," murmured Jiayi. The men glanced at her, then back at Zhaojie.

"She is correct. We might not know a general until he outright admitted it. Except there is hierarchy. I believe we saw one such leader. That orb… the vessel departed as soon as it reached the ship. And we know the insectoid things follow one of their own. We saw it months ago, in London. Some of these… humans wear red sashes, perhaps this is a rank insignia also? But we are side-tracking. How can we assist Hackett?"

Jacobs frowned, "Can we at all? I hate to say it, but one of us needs to put the idea out there: We have the objective, securing that thing," he gestured at the crystal on the ruined table, "was our target, or part of it. If we die and lose it…?"

Essex looked furious, about to shout at his comrade but Jiayi murmured again, "He is correct. This is a war, not a novella. We die, the war could be lost. Hackett is doing his duty."

Zhaojie coughed before Essex could round on her, "Corporal. We are soldiers. Not heroes. We can try to save everyone, but if we die in the attempt, then what is the point. No, I don't think we can tip the odds too far in our favour from here. But that isn't to say we can't assist in some manner. Jiayi, anything in that… ship of theirs?"

The slight Chinese woman stood from where she was leaning against the wall and frowned, "We cannot use it, if that is what you are asking. I could identify no controls, no easy mechanisms. We found an insectoid aboard as well, which we captured. Gives us two live ones now. I believe they may be the pilots, similar to how they appear to drive the walkers, _zhu_."

Zhaojie nodded, "A likely deduction. So, can we persuade them to fly the thing?"

She shook her head and the ghost of a smile played on her face, "Not unless you have learned to read _their_ minds."

Essex looked back at Zhaojie, "So how _can_ we help? Time's a wasting even if you just want us to cut and run."

Zhaojie fixed him with a stare and the man had the good grace to flinch and look away, "Mr Essex, I have known Sergeant Hackett longer than you. Our priority is securing a fast escape for as many of us as we can. But we _must _secure this crystal and any devices we can. We need room to breathe. I am in command, so these will _my_ choices to bear. Your freedom comes from the fact you will be alive to hate me afterwards."

Jiayi was watching him and he waved at her. She stood a little straighter, "_Zhu?"_

"Take the snipers closer to the south. Harry their rearward flank, but do not expose yourself. Corporal Jacobs, we need to secure access back to the river, to fall back to where the good Captain has moored up. He and the sailors will have secured a position for us to retrieve a vessel. That is our easiest escape route; I have no desire to walk south. And I very much doubt that British Rail is accommodating at this time."

That drew a chuckle, even Essex managed a grin. The young man heaved a sigh, "So, plan is we harry and retreat then?"

Zhaojie nodded, then laid it out on the crumpled map he produced - Jacobs to identify a route to the river via reconnaissance, Jiayi to harry the enemy's northern flank to buy Hackett some breathing space. And Essex to keep the men here to secure the site. The latter didn't look happy, "Keeping me back, boss?"

Zhaojie looked him in the eye, "Right now I do not know if I can trust your judgement, David. I need to know you have our back, so I am giving you that to watch. This is a defensible point, an area of interest for the enemy; we can retreat here and hold the line enough. Once we know the ground, we can regroup, then withdraw. Hopefully Hackett can fight through. He knows to retreat back to the river, to the Captain. Now, all of you, get to it. Jiayi, we need to signal to Hackett. Green flare, remember?" She nodded, then jogged out, a pair of snipers following. Zhaojie gave his small band a last look, "Into the breach, my friends."

* * *

Dogs dinner. More cock ups than a Soho whorehouse. Pratfalls to rival a Brighton pier show. So many descriptions, so little _bloody_ time.

He was down a quarter of his men, mostly wounded and in cover. The civvies were definitely helping at least. The widening pools of red showed that some of his lads had bought it, though. That rat-bastard of a floating scorpion was a pretty damn good shot. Add to that the gunfire from the corridor to their rear showed that his lads hadn't been able to seal it shut.

But they were making the _bastards_ pay for every inch. Smoke and dust obscured the gap for the most part, but he knew there were a solid twenty enemy dead on the other side, along with a good fifteen insectoids this side. Fifty of the crab-spider bastard things to their rear. Maybe more by the gun fire.

Dead orbs, two dead scorpion disc bastards. So many _bastards_. He chuckled to himself, knowing the wound in his leg wasn't helping and his adrenaline was likely making things a bit woozy. He couldn't tell if the thump in his head was the repeated fire of guns or his own blood thundering through his veins. Then the ground shook and he cursed.

Carefully he leaned out of cover and groaned. The smoke had cleared enough to show that there were still a pair of Mutons and at least six of the human-horrors standing across the gap. One of the snake-eyed bastards was with them as well, but they were all hanging back. And who knew how many more were trying to break down their rear flank. Or were just skulking outside those huge doors.

As if the universe wanted to answer his query directly, a huge silhouette lumbered into view through the half-opened double doors. Hackett groaned as a tripod moved forwards. The doors were damaged, however, so the thing had to half squat, half sidle. It was eerily graceful for such a massive machine as it looked to shoulder its way through the gap.

Around him Hackett could hear his men cursing and fire switched to the machine. He saw sparks fly off its metal hull and chip away at the dromed green canopy of its cockpit, but nothing struck true. A mortar could maybe dent it, but short of it falling over, they had no…

Hackett's thoughts trailed off as he risked another look.

Most of the floor in front of the doors was just… an elevator. Like a mineshaft lift, it had maybe a lip for people to walk across in front of the doors, meaning the roundel of the main room was uninterrupted. But the machines they'd seen coming up had been built at the bottom, raised up and just walked out. No space to manoeuver around the edges, at least not easily. And certainly not at full height what with the slope of the dome.

His exhausted mind sprinted through ideas. A lift. A slip of metal, supported by, what, a cog? A rail? Some sort of weird science bollocks?

The machine lumbered fully into the dome and managed to elevate itself, the body rotating slightly as it tried to identify targets through the smoke. Over the crack of rifles and _thrum_ of their purloined auto-weapons, Hackett could hear the monsters shouting. No, not shouting. _Cheering_.

_Bit premature, you bastards. Wait til final whistle at least…_

The sergeant cast about him and saw his demo-men, huddled behind a stack of metal. He heard a _thrummm_ and further along the walkway he saw a group of civilians explode into flame, their weapons exploding along with them. A wave of heat washed around them as the machine dragged its heat ray across the walk-space, forcing men into cover. He heard the hiss and pop of metal heating to a ridiculous temperature in seconds flat.

"Lads. When you get a mo, mind checking range to the lift. I want rockets on target _below_ it."

The men stared at him, "But… that's mad sir!"

"Any other clever ideas? We know unless you fire fifty rockets at one of them, it does bugger all. Got a fifty pounder in your back pocket? Can you direct fire into the lift mechanisms?"

One of the men popped his head up briefly then ducked back down as a hail of yellow and green bolts flew his way. The man looked pensive, then nodded and whispered to his fellow, the back at Hackett, "Can you keep them off us, fifteen seconds?"

The Sergeant frowned and looked around. He saw his mortar crew, wounded or dead, nearby. He couldn't tell, the men were slumped against steel, eyes closed. One had far too much blood around him to be responsive… or alive, "Fifteen seconds… right then, lets give these _bloody arsing bastards_ a show,"

He dove out, pushing with his good leg, and rolled into cover next to the discarded mortar. Behind him, the tiled floor hissed and bubbled as the heat ray lanced, barely missing him. He felt his moustache crisp, the hair on his face singeing, then took stock. One phosphorus round. One high explosive. One shrapnel. What a banquet!

He looked at his remaining men, maybe fifteen enlisted and twelve civvies, all hunkered down, "Right lads. We wait for another sweep. Then I want everyone just keeping those bastards heads down. Big bucket of bolts there takes a few seconds to recharge its gun. Maybe ten seconds, maybe a minute depending how much it wants to melt things. On my mark…"

He hefted the morta, took a quick glance out of cover, then hefted the tube and rammed the phosphorous shell home, swinging the tube at an angle. There was a _phluup_ as the shell launched and he rolled back, feeling a swell of heat as the machine bathed their side of the vast hall with its ray. He heard a couple of men scream, their voices suddenly cutting off as they died. Then there was a crash and a shriek from the other side as the white cloud enveloped the aliens. He saw the human-monsters stagger, clawing at their faces as the concentrated phosphorous burned at their skin. The Mutons were staggering, irritated, but mostly unbothered. But the snake man stood tall and glared straight at him.

Right until a rifle round blasted its head into green mulch.

His men popped out of cover and rained hell - rifles popped, gauss guns rattle and the gathered aliens scrambled to cover. A few rounds struck the fighting machine as it squatted down. Hackett saw hatches open on its dome and knew that they were out of time. He swore and popped the HE round into the mortar. It arced through the air and burst on the dome of the fighting machine which rocked back; black smoke billowed from a tube, but it straightened up and levelled its main weapon his way.

A pair of shrieking rockets flew from his left and slammed into the rails below the lift. The fighting machine rocked gently. For a moment, the world seemed silent.

Then there was the sound of tortured metal. A groaning, keening wail of steel and alien alloys under stress. The tripod let out a strange warble, perhaps of surprise as the elevator platform lurched. It slid slightly, but its managed to brace a leg and stopped tis tumble. Hacketts heart fell as the thing began to straighten.

Then, with a clang, the elevator collapsed. The whole thing just buckled, then folded up, like a trap door.

The tripod fell, its main gun firing as it did. The line of heat sliced up at an angle, carving a white hot line through the building to Hackett's right. It tumbled down the vast pit, then slammed at the base, where it exploded in a cloud of blue-green fire. The explosion triggered something else down below and the derricks erupted in green fire - methane and other gasses suddenly superheating. The building rocked.

Across the way, the double doors shuddered and collapsed, blocking the entry-way.

Silence fell as dust drifted down. Peering through the smoke, the Sergeant realised their aggressors were all down - the mutons perforated by twenty men deciding to focus fire. He didn't care how tough your armour was - physics has a way of having words with enough force applied. The floating scorpion was down, the glowing line of the wild heat-ray shot having completely bisected the thing. Friendly fire that was _not_.

Hackett slumped as his men cheered. How the _hell_ had they pulled that off. Open terrain they'd have been _toast_ five times over. His reverie was interrupted by running feet. He struggled his way to his feet and blinked as a group of men made it inside - his gunners and snipers. And a sailor from the boat? The man spotted him and jogged over.

"Sergeant. Davey, we met on the boat?" it was like a fellow catching up a church. The Sergeant just blinked at him, shock finally starting to kick in. The man continued, either not noticing or being pressed for time, "We got the civvies out, along the coast, once your boys knocked down them crawly things. Captain sent me and the crew shadowing, he brought the boat a little further up - them dead-uns got those fighting machines on the ridge. Or they did a runner, moving north. Can't tell. He's moored up half a mile. But, trick is sir, with them civvies… we're low on space."

Hackett looked around at his men, mind racing. "Any other boats ship worthy?"

The man shrugged, "Maybe. Blew a load up, took out a tripod. Rivers all clogged with broken shit. So, best bet is north shore. No big boats though. Maybe a fisher boat here or there."

And they didn't know what was going on up north… and then the universe seemed to hear him again. Through the smashed roof he saw something arc into the sky and explode - a green flare. He grinned, stupidly.

"Right, well, priorities. Rear way clear?"

One of his men answered, "Had some of those trench-coats try to sneak in. Took them out, as well as a muton. All clear for now. Seems they're fighting the _Lost_ on the bridge at the moment."

"Ok, Wounded first. Let's get out of here. This place looks fit to fall. Police our dead, we'll leave their side alone. Anyone who can't walk, carry. Anyone who can, grab a person, weapon or both. Let's get the arse out of here!"

They withdrew to the rear and emerged into the open air ruins of Gateshead to a massacre - dead Cryssalids and aliens littered the open space. The Sergeant glanced up and his Maxim gunners here waved back down. To their left they could hear the growls and squeals of the _Lost_ in the distance, coupled with alien shouts and curses, as well as gunfire. Now and then he heard a _crack_ that he realised was on of those Afghan rifles. Some overwatch happening clearly!

One of the remaining lance corporals marshalled the survivors together, then looked to the Sergeant, "Orders sir?"

"Green flare, up. We need to let them know we're drawing out. Get on the roof, signal that Jiayi girl if they're there. Tell 'em we're heading down river. Then move like the devil is on your arse. Get the wounded aboard. And if we run out of space... Well… let's cross that bridge, alright?"

The man grabbed another soldier and relayed the orders, then sent him and another off at a trot to climb a building to get the message out. He saw the Lance-jack heft the flare and fire it, then follow the retreating crowd down the road. He limped along, helped by another squaddie. They made good time, managing it in thirty minutes. They found the boat moored at a shitty fisherman's dock near a ruined collection of houses and he watched the civvies load aboard. And he realised there would be no room at the inn for most of his lads. He turned to his wounded men.

"Get on boys. Can't walk, can't fight. Get back down south. Report. We'll have to make our own way. Boss man and me…"

"You can't walk sarge!" protested one man with a bandage covering a bloodied face.

"I can limp with a fuckin' vengeance. No back talk. After all, can't be letting the rupert get all the credit. Now, aboard and you, Captain, get the bloody hell out of here, you understand?"

The seaman was stood on the deck of the clunky vessel and he nodded, "God speed to you, Sergeant."

"You too. And… bloody job with that distraction. Make a soldier of you yet."

The Captain grinned, "I bloody hope not! You'd make me shave."

Hackett chuckled and waved him off. He stood there, leaning on a rifle like a crutch, as the vessel pulled away, with ten men still standing next to him. The boat the Captain had purloined was a decent sized steamer, but they'd evacuated a goodly number of civvies, more than he'd realised. They'd have needed a liner to get everyone out. And it was too big a target to loiter if they had to wait for Zhaojie and the rest. They'd have to make do another way.

Movement across the bank caught his eye and he felt a grin cross his face. On the opposite bank a pair of figures were waving at them.

* * *

Crossing had been a simple matter of finding a few row boats and serviceable sail-boats. They'd crossed the river relatively unnoticed - the aliens were occupied with the horde on the bridge and the _Lost_ it seemed had cleared this stretch of river and were just focusing on their area around the dome.

Hackett clambered awkwardly from his temporary ferry and gripped Corporal Jacobs' wrist, "Good to see you lad. So, lead the way, debrief later."

The man nodded and led his small troupe of men up through the ruins of Newcastle, avoiding the scant _Lost_. The patrols, it seemed, were bogged down on the perimeter and at the bridge, so traversal was easy. Another half an hour and they were safely at the command centre.

"This commuting lark, not bad with no other buggers around to ruin it," chuckled Hackett as he and his men limped into the ruined compound.

"But where would be the sport?" rumbled an answer as Zhaojie stepped out of the strange metal building. The Sergeant drew himself up and gave a salute. Zhaojie returned it and surveyed the men, "A little light, it seems. I'm sorry. Many casualties?"

The Sergeant swallowed a lump, "Less than I'd feared… more than I'd like. These bastards have a fair few tricks. But, saved the civvies, got my wounded off."

"Jiayi reported a steamer heading off. No room for yourself?"

The Sergeant shook his head, "We maybe could've squeezed on. But, well."

Zhaojie nodded slowly, "Not wanting to leave us in the lurch. Corporal Essex seems to be taking after you. Your arrival is timely. We had plotted extraction to the river, but your movements ahead of time have made that moot. For the best reasons," he smiled, showing he wasn't irritated by the initiative. That surprised Hackett - he knew a fair few officers would've expected him to fight all the way back to HQ to ask permission for a latrine break, let alone sending off their main evacuation plan.

"Ah, heat of the moment sir. Think I'm running on fumes…"

"Indeed. Corporal Jacobs, get these men inside, fed and watered. We need to plan where we go _now_."

Time whirled and Hackett found a tin mug in his hand, the smell of soup wafting up from it. Around him men slumped and dozed, the sudden action catching up with them. A medic checked his wound and applied more gauze and the strange gelatin. Already he felt the soreness abating, the muscles seeming to knit together faster than possible previously.

He slept. When he awoke, it was night and men were hunkered down in the window frames. Silence was all around and he saw Zhaojie hold a hand to his lips in the gloom - there was no fire now, no heat. Carefully, Hackett moved to join his Lieutenant and peered out of the broken door frame to gaze outside.

A solider, one of the alien human monsters, was limping into the compound, past the ruined wall. He was clearly bleeding and the only sound was the limping scrape of his movement. The Sergeant realised there was no gunfire, no sound of destruction. Just the cold air and the scrape of the man's boots on the ground.

The soldier collapsed, whimpering. It was such a _human_ sound. The fear etched in the noise. The despair. He glanced at Zhaojie and saw the man frowning. The the large Chinese man gestured to a soldier, one of the medics and pointed at the soldier. The man blinked in surprise, then grabbed the fellow next to him. They dashed out, half running half creeping and snatched up the fallen soldier. The medic dragged him backwards, a hand clamped across the soldier's face, the other trooper hefting the enemy troopers legs.

They bundled the man inside and laid him on a table. Another trooper gagged the alien soldier with a rag, whilst the medic checked wounds, "Bite and claw marks, superficial. Some burns. Yeah, probably caught in an explosion after encountering the _Lost_."

"So where are they all?"

The small platoon exchanged glances, those who weren't peering out into the night at least. Zhaojie watched, impassive, as the medic treated the creature's wounds. Hackett opened his mouth, paused, then spoke, "Why we helping him?"

The Lieutenant frowned and tilted his head, "A feeling. These are human. Or nearly. They seem to feel despair. Fear. And a thing that feels fear, that has responses…. Maybe they can be spoken to."

"Interrogate it?"

"Maybe. Doctor Vahlen has gleaned information from our previous captives, but they are strange… incomplete images from drawings, or via our broken understanding of their languages. Some people with supposed telepathic abilities recruited by Exalt have been able to speak to the grey-things. And the Tall-Men have been very co-operative when we do break them. These are… new. We captured another up here, but he is still out cold. Our voltage seems to completely stun their nervous system. He appears to be in a coma, whilst the Insectoid grey-ones are at least awake if… passive."

The Sergeant gave his boss the side eye, "Practically a sermon, Zhaojie."

The Chinaman grinned, "I am known to wax lyrical. Ask Jiayi."

"Rather not. She gives me the unmentionable shivers."

Zhaojie arched an eyebrow and a small voice came from behind Hackett, "Good or bad?"

The Sergeant jumped a little and glared back at the small woman, "Always the bad kind. But it's why I like you as someone who puts rounds down range. Share the pain."

The woman gave a brittle smile and nodded, "Thank you." Hackett looked back at the alien trooper then back at the Lieutenant.

"So, what do you want to ask him that can't wait for Vahlen?"

Zhaojie shrugged, then pointed at the wall beyond which Hackett dimly recalled seeing a strange saucer thing sat on a platform, "They have strange machines out there."

Hackett nodded slowly, "Want to make sure they aren't going to wake up and blow us to pieces?"

The Lieutenant grinned, "No. I want to see if he knows how to fly it."


	39. Chapter 37

Bradford slapped another report on the desk and sighed, "Another one from the front. Seems it's worse'n the papers said. Lucky we had our own boys out there. Plus some of your friends in the Regiments who didn't buy the Prince's BS."

Anderson looked up from the lists, requisitions and map extracts he was studying and frowned, then took the report, "Surely not?"

Bradford shook his head sadly, then looked around the office. It was in one of the rooms set off from the main central hall of the Keep and Anderson had claimed it as a Commanders' planning room of sorts. The walls were festooned with recent snippets of information as well as some of Vahlens' scarily detailed diagrams of the aliens themselves, "Yeah, we lost too many. But the regiments left regrouped and have managed to push into some parts of enemy territory. They've gotten the Martian's attention, drawing them out in the way we want. There's more than we expected but… well one bit of good news, there aren't as many as we were planning for in the worst case scenarios."

Anderson sagged back in the chair, which creaked slightly and ran a hand through his hair. He knew he was greying now. A few months ago it'd been a strand here or there. Now, he reckoned it'd be full grey in another year, "Lucky we got the Specialist Heavy Infantry Vehicles out. Shen does good work on budget it seems. And the prototype weaponry?"

"Doing well. Need to that Vahlen again. We've issued it out to some of _our_ troops in town too - in case those Extra-Terrestrial Command goons turn up and try a number while the army is away. Who'd have thought. Guns that shoot _lightning_. Portable mortars. Explosive bullets. Madness. Damn, what the guys back at West Point would do for shit like this."

"Language, Major," chuckled Anderson. The man just grinned back and stroked his beard - he'd let his facial hair grow out and he looked more like a longshoreman now, with overcoat and thick brown beard.

"Well, remind me to thank her, sir. Where is she?"

Anderson moved his jaw and smiled slightly, "I believe she returned to the lab."

Bradford quirked another grin and arched an eyebrow, "Don't know? Didn't watch her go?"

"I was not compos mentis, Major."

"And a gentlemen never tells?"

Anderson gave an exasperated sigh, half a mind to berate the man for his inappropriate chatter. But Bradford was a good sort. And a funny bugger when he put his mind to it. Instead he rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh, "She gave me my marching orders, told me to drink some tea and get on with things. That is all…"

"Yeah, I'm next in line for the papacy, sir. But she's good people. You're good people. I just want to make sure we're all in good form, y'know?"

"Indeed, Major. So, anything else?"

"Some weird reports on the perimeters. Refugees being shifted by Smytheson's boys a fair bit, concentrating them more."

Anderson frowned, "Why?"

"Asked for an update but the perimeter guys aren't sure. Those India Company guys are a weird bunch, not chatty. Something about "reducing the footprint".

"Hm, makes some sense. Can't afford to be spread too thin. But it does mean we're putting all our proverbial eggs in a narrow branch of baskets."

There was a sharp knock on the door and both men looked to see a Private, panting heavily, "Sirs, Mr Smytheson, in the courtyard. Urgent news apparently."

The pair shared a glance and Anderson mused, "How timely. Right, Bradford, let's go have a chat."

Outside the keep the courtyard was a hive of activity - men setting up mortars, soldiers going through drills repeatedly and stacks of crates being checked in and out by a mix of labourers and troops. A real "people's army" in action. It masked the general unease that was always present: their fear of running out of food, of ammunition. Shen's tricks and connections were alleviating some of that, what with covered greenhouses, the slaughterhouse district down the way and various black market deals. But it was always a concern.

Their most reliable supporter, Smytheson, clad in his usual suit, cloak and bowler hat, was stood behind the barricade that had been set up at the southern gate. He looked peevish, an expression that rarely seemed to leave his face despite his expressed enthusiasm for the cause. Surprisingly, General Marter was with him. Along with about ten of the brown trench-coat soldiers that seemed to accompany the East India Man all over the place.

Anderson nodded to the Soldiers on duty as he and Bradford approached, "All clear, Corporal. You should recognise the General."

"Aye sir, just not registered in the log book. And the General's office usually send a runner beforehand."

Anderson had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as he surveyed the group, "Apologies General. Procedure. To what do we owe this visit?"

It was Smytheson who spoke, "The General asked me to attend and escort him here. He's concerned there is a… spy," Bradford looked from Smytheson to the General, who had still said nothing. The man looked nervous, glancing behind them. He then fixed his gaze at Smytheson. The man gave a shrug, "I'm afraid he's been twitchy since Whitehall. Hasn't said a word on the ride here, beyond directing me and mine. Is Doctor Vahlen around, perhaps she can shed some light?"

The man sounded genuinely worried, a feeling that crept over Anderson. He could hear the sincerity. He found himself nodding, "Yes of course, come in."

"We have some additional supplies. Do you mind if my staff bring it in? Not safe on the street, even close to the Castle. And Doctor Vahlen?"

"Not here, unfortunately. We'll have our on site medical staff have a look and see if a transfer is required."

"Ah of course, so we will have to make do. Can catch up with her later…" muttered Smytheson. He smiled and Anderson noticed he still had that exhausted look - pale skin, dark shadows under the eyes. His smile looked manic.

Behind him his men filed through the checkpoint, shadowing them as they walked towards the keep. A pair of carts rattled along as well, with about a dozen men in overalls fussing over them. The horses seemed spooked, nostrils flaring and Anderson felt that unsettled feeling in his stomach.

"So, could we go to the Keep? Keen to get in and secured, of course," chuckled Smytheson. It wasn't a pleasant noise. Anderson frowed, about to say "yes", but something stopped him. He glanced at Bradford, who seemed to have glazed over slightly.

"No, not right now. Sensitive documents and don't want to disrupt the staff, seeing the General out of sorts."

Smytheson twitched and frowned at him, "I must insist. We need to be secure…"

Anderson felt the urge to agree. But it was like another voice in his head, "And I must refuse, Mr Smytheson. We will ensure the General is sequestered and treated. Thank you. But you know I cannot allow you into secure Military locations."

Bradford seemed to be waking up, a frown creasing his own face. Anderson noticed in his periphery that the guards with Smytheson had spread out around them, ostensibly securing them. But they were _inside _the keep. The wagons had been moved but seemed to have blocked the gate. He looked back at the East India Man and cocked his head.

Smytheson glared, looked around, then sighed, "Well, we're inside at least," he looked Anderson square in the eye, "I'm afraid I have bad news _Commander_."

Anderson felt his stomach tighten further and his hand twitched, "Oh?"

"I am relieving you of command. For the sake of you men and this city. Stand. Down."

Bradford stared at the man, "What the hell?" he drawled.

"The British Army is routed, the Navy will not be far behind. This city will fall, soon. It can be an easy transition. For the sake of England and her people, _surrender_ to me."

The pressure was there, although it wasn't an overwhelming feeling. Just a nagging presence now that Anderson was aware of it, "What are you playing at Smytheson? The Council haven't revoked my command and if this is another stupid power play…"

"The Council are irrelevant. My men are tracking the Speaker. And the General."

Anderson was confused. Then he watched as Smytheson stepped away from the General. The old soldier seemed to ripple and his flesh sloughed like runny porridge. The man gave a gurgling groan and hunched forward, "Surrender Commander, or your men will suffer," Smytheson's grin was a near snarl and he flourished a pistol from under his cloak and levelled it at Anderson, "How the tables are turned, eh old man?"

Then he went down like a sack of potatoes as Bradford leapt forward and planted one hell of a haymaker on the man's jaw. Smytheson dropped, dazed.

And then all hell broke loose.

First, Smytheson's guards spun levelling weapons. Then one died as a nearby soldier opened up with his own sidearm. That distracted the rest as they found themselves suddenly the focus of the attention of soldiers and workers. Anderson himself had his pistol out and had shot one man point blank. He stared as the goggles on the man's face shattered, revealing a malformed face with eyes that were too large.

Then he spun and fired again. And again. The India-guards scattered, diving for cover as Bradford pulled his own sidearm and began firing.

The General let out a roar and lurched upright. Gone was the soldier, his clothes, anything recognisably human. Instead a 9 foot tall mishappen clay-like figure towered over them.

"Bloody _hell_," hissed Anderson as he stumbled backwards. Beyond, the pair of wagons rippled and figures leapt from their covered interiors. More India-guard. Accompanied by Tall-men. But these were not clad in suits. No, they wore form-fitting black armour and carrier green rifles and blades. Around them, the workers rippled and lurched, growing in stature into more of the clay-men.

"Infamy! Betrayal! Sound the alarm!" bellowed Anderson as he and Bradford fell back towards the keep. He levelled his pistol at Smytheson who was just starting to sit up, but had to duck as a flash of green whizzed past. When he looked again, the weasley man had vanished.

Bradford grabbed his arm and practically dragged him up the wooden stairs and into the keep proper. A pair of soldiers were at the door, firing with bolt action rifles into the melee in the courtyard. Men on the parapets were firing down, or locked in close combat with the enemy. The Tall-men moved through the battle like ballet dancers, slicing and stabbing, taking shots like men on a clay-pigeon shoot - deliberate, aimed and deadly. The huge monsters lurched about with pendulum steps, swinging tree-trunk like arms, scattering men and equipment like toys.

Inside the keep, the soldiers slammed the door shut and proceeded to bar it, moving to windows where other troops had already set up firing positions. Anderson looked at Bradford, "What the devil just happened?"

"I think we've been compromised."

The Commander shook his head, then paled, "They control most of the interior security for London. Which means…"

Bradford groaned, "Which means they likely gave free passage for the enemy to move troops into the city. And they've corralled the refugees."

Anderson managed a grim smile, "Good job we didn't tell him _everything_. Now, we have to weather this. You!" he pointed at a nervous young soldier, manning a bank of field telephones, "Get the word out. East India Company soldiers are kill-on-sight, compromised assets. London is no longer under siege: we are invaded. I want perimeter contingencies ready to go. Artillery enclave commanders are to be ready for the go signal. Any troops who can reconvene on the tower, get them here. YOU!"

A young woman in cover-alls and an ammunition belt twitched to an approximation of attention, "Sir?"

"I need runners over the wall, to Shen and Vahlen. Tell them the same - but get them bunkered down and to secure their sites. Everyone else, I want information on where these bastards are hitting: troop movements, sightings. Get the observation balloons on the horn, obs posts on the rooves, signal them with mirrors if you have to. Trust the garrison to hold these bastards at bay. Get to it."

The room froze, then buzzed to action. Men scampered upstairs to vantage points and to the signals relays that communicated with the various balloons floating over London as observation points. Some headed to gunner positions on the Keep's roof or upper windows. The woman headed off, grabbing another pair of soldiers, dragging them towards another doorway.

There was a loud thump at the main door, followed by a gurgling roar. Bradord shouted and a squad of men ran up, tipping over a pair of tables for cover. One brought up what looked like a Maxim gun, but covered in copper wires and with a faint blue glow to a set up tubes atop it.

The door creaked and burst open, revealing one of the mud-monsters. Immediately, the soldier fired the strange gun. A bolt slammed hard into the creature's chest and it rocked backwards, gurgling angrily. Then the air crackled and a lance of electricity jumped from the rifle to the bolt. The stench of barbequing flesh filled the air as the creature howled and toppled backwards, over the railing of the steps that led to the door. There was a muffled thud as it hit the ground, leaving only the smell of charred flesh and a drifting cloud of smoke.

Beyond the open door came the cries of battle, the crack of gunfire. Anderson looked at the room, "Stay at your posts! Guards, to arms. Bradford, hold the fort…" he paused, then grinned maniacally, "Literally! To arms all, to arms!"

A brown-coat wearing soldier appeared in the door frame, then jerked like a puppet with its strings cut as five rifles barked at it, rounds jinking him left and right. The British inside crept towards the door, men covering from the windows. One man reported a sharp "Clear!" and a group of men set to barricading the door again.

Outside the walls appeared to be holding, but the Tall-men were wreaking havoc. Men lay dead and dying on the ground and Anderson swore.

"This cannot get any worse."

He surveyed the scene and barked orders. A crack from high up sent a Tall-man sprawling as one of the roof-top snipers took it down. The rest of them scrambled for cover, sacrificing mobility for security of stone and wood. Anderson growled then gestured to his men, "Let's take it to them. We can't manage the fightback with a compromised command post. With me men!"

He vaulted the makeshift barricade at the door, six men behind him, including the man hauling the electro-rifle. He dashed down the stairs, sword drawn and bore down on where one Tall-man was sheltering behind scattered crates. The man-thing saw him and tried to level its rifle, but Anderson fire his pistol as he ran forwards, forcing the thing to duck. Another creature moved to take a shot and vanished in a cloud of green gas as it exploded from the force of a sniper round.

And then Anderson was on his target. It bright its rifle up to block his downward sword strike. But Anderson just shoved his pistol into its gut and fired. The creature doubled over with a gurgle and Anderson reversed his grip on his sword, then drove it down through the creature's hunched back. The armour was tough, but he pushed down after his initial thrust and the blade pierced through. Then he took stock.

The clay-men were tough but slow. Most had been felled by concentrated fire and one was just a walking column of flame, wailing as it flailed madly. It seemed mad. What had they hoped to achieve? But he realised they nearly _had._ And possibly still could. If they had reinforcements on the way from across London.

The India-guard were fighting with some sort of automatic rifles, doing a good job of suppressing most of the men on the walls or in the courtyard. But this seemed too few men to take on a whole garrison - had they hoped to kill or capture the main command staff? Disrupt enough to gain an advantage? Or was this their endgame?

His eyes were drawn to the carts Smytheson had brought. His eyes narrowed as he saw metal glinting within; a greenish glow emanating from the bed of the cart. How one was positioned right in the gate. The other near a munitions store.

Oh no.

He wheeled to his men, "Get me a bloody sapper, to those carts _now_. Don't let anyone near them, and find Smytheson. They're explo-"

He didn't finish the sentence as the one near the store explode, violently. The blast picked him off his feet and blew him ten feet backwards, where he landed on the cobbles hard. The wind was knocked from his lungs and his ears wouldn't stop ringing. Burnt fabric and molten stone rained down, rattling against the ground. He could hear screams and gunfire, but it was muffled. Miraculously, the second wagon hadn't gone up. But two of his men were down. He couldn't tell if they were dead or not. But a third was already heading back to the keep.

Arms gripped him and hauled him to his feet. Anderson looked up and saw one of his men hauling him back into cover. Two others were squatting down, covered in dust, checking weapons. The nearest man had to shout into his face to be heard.

"Only five of them left sir. Tall-men vaulted the walls and retreated. Just India boys and two of the walking-candle wax monsters."

"Set to, let's clear them out, secure that gate."

"Aye sir. Stay down."

The men rounded the cover and headed in the direction of the gunfire. Anderson's vision swam as he steadied himself. He checked the battlefield, for what good it did. The courtyard near the keep was a mess of burning debris and smoke. Figures could be seen in the smoke staggering blindly. Flashes showed where guns spat and arcs of electricity flashed as Shen's more advanced weapons came to bear. They seemed to have the Aliens on the back foot, at least here. But damn if it wasn't a shock.

"You can't win," the voice came from near him and he spun. But there was just empty air behind him, near the clustered buildings that flanked the edges of the keep courtyard, "We will win this day. And I will be Chosen! Not just made to bend the knee. I will make you bend _yours_."

Pain spiked in Anderson's head and he hissed. The pistol dropped from his hand and he winced, "Smytheson. Where… where are you?"

"You old fool. You should've taken the easy way. Now we have to do this the _painful way_. But I'm glad. I get to pay you back for making me put up with those ditherers and fogeys who made me _apologise_. To a relic like _you_. This is the way of things now. The future!"

A figure came into view, stepping through the smoke. Smytheson. But he was _different_. A strange purple aura surrounded his head. It was weak, but it was there. Anderson could see a strand, like smokey string stretching from Smytheson to… _him_?

"What.. .what are you doing."

"Oh you're strong, didn't think someone from the Army would be. All 'yes sir, no sir, put my arse in the air for you sir?' aren't you? Maybe you're just stubborn. But now… now with your brain all rattled… well I can just take you out so easily."

Anderson found his knees sagging and a strange wave of fear swept over him. He looked up and saw the barrel of a pistol levelled at him. And suddenly he found a groundswell of courage, "So, working for them. But they don't let you play with their toys eh?"

Beyond the pistol he saw Smytheson's sneer turn into a snarl. Then the pistol was whipped across his face. He felt the impact and knew his cheek was split and bleeding, his face numb from the impact, "Shut up. You know nothing. We have your whole organisation on the ropes. Across the world, cities fall to us. The Americans are lost, they jumped on board as soon as they saw a chance at power. The Russians are doomed. Hindenburg's little attempts at resistance will be crushed."

"But you don't have General Marter. Or the Council. We'll just start again. We'll keep fighting. Bleed you dry. So. Shoot me. More will rise. I've shown your little friends can bleed. And die. And scream for mercy. You saw Vahlen's labs. They're running scared. Think they'll save you?"

The younger man puffed up, "Your death will show them that even tigers are mortal."

"We aren't tigers, Smytheson," Anderson's eyes flickered to the right slightly, then focused on the man again, "we're wolves."

There was the loud crack of a pistol and Smytheson jerked to the side with a shriek. His hand went to his side where blood blossomed from a wound. He tried to raise his pistol from his slumped position, but Anderson was on his feet. He swung his sword and knocked the weapon flying, then returned the tip to point at Smytheson's throat. The purple aura had vanished and was flickering intermittently as pain blossomed on the man's face. Footsteps clacked on the cobbles and a figure stepped into view.

"_Wie gehts, Herr Anderson?"_

"I fear my relaxation period was rendered moot, my dear Doctor. But I am all the better for the timely rescue," he glanced at Vahlen and inclined his head. The woman smirked and glanced at the pistol in her hand. It was not a small thing - a revolver that looked rather intimidating. The woman was wearing her usual attire of blazer and functional skirt. Behind her swarmed a veritable company of EXALT troops and Civilian militia.

"You are most welcome..._liebchen…_ your runner told us to bunker up and my staff objected. Who am I to stand in the way of patriotic fervour, _ja?_"

Anderson looked down at the groaning Smytheson, then looked back at Vahlen, frowning at her. She appeared to be wearing a strange tiara, "Off to the opera?"

She tutted, "_Nein._ This is a..._schranke_… a barricade against the enemy's mind tricks. We have a few made, thought it best to try them out if they were infiltrating. And why is Mr Smytheson trying to kill you?"

Anderson looked down at the man and smiled unpleasantly, "I think the enemy got to him first. And I think he'd be of interest to you, my good Doctor."

Smytheson looked up, blinked, then looked at Vahlen. The woman had a strange glint in her eye as she cocked her head. Then she nodded. A pair of soldiers jogged up and she gestured at the fallen man, "Take him. Sedate him. Secure him. And… put a dome on him."

The men nodded and advanced. One produced a syringe from a pouch. Anderson stepped back and limped over to Vahlen, "thank you, again, Moira. I think I was rather done for…"

She lifted a hand and gripped his chin, fixed his eyes with hers, "I told you, _keine gefahr_. But _NEIN_. You charge out. You push yourself to be at the front, I bet. And now…"

He blinked. Her eyes were moist. On impulse he dropped his sword. The clang gave her pause. Then his hands were on her shoulders and his face came forwards.

The world seemed to stop, the kiss lasting for an eternity. They broke apart. Moira blinked, surprised.

"_Vielen danke,_ Moira."

"..._Ja_…" she breathed out. He smiled gently then winced at the pain in his face. Her frown returned and she tutted. Her hands gripped his arm and she towed him towards the Keep, "Insufferable, stubborn…" she muttered as they walked. But he just grinned.

They entered the command room and she dragged him to his office. Bradford was still marshalling the staff, conveying reports and directing efforts. He glanced over and shared a sardonic look with Vahlen, who just tutted again. A medic trailed in after them, pulling out clean rags and a small vial of medicinal salve. Vahlen watched, arms folded as the soldier cleaned up the commander, then watched him as he shifted under her stare.

"So, we've been attacked. How're things at the hospital."

"Secure."

"And Shen?"

"Over with the Ironclad."

He looked at her, "You are upset?"

She blinked at him, "Confused."

"Well it's rather simple. We've been atta-" She was suddenly right in front of him, glaring at him, "Oh. yes, well."

Her eyes searched his, then she nodded and smiled, "Good. We can discuss this more over dinner perhaps."

"Sounds… perfect," he managed, weakly.

Then the window glass, what was left of it, exploded and their air was filled with a foghorn wail that blanketed the city. Anderson crouched, shielding Moira and winced as he stood up, then gawped as he stared out of the window of his office.

Above the west of the city hung a vast _thing_. A blocky grey shape covered in green light. It was clearly a couple of miles away from them, maybe more. But it was massive. And as they watched, smaller shapes began to stream from it, flying through the air like a cloud of smoke.

And from below, things began to drop. Familiar, three legged things, falling to earth so hard the impact could be felt through the ground even there. He heard Vahlen breath out as she clutched him tightly and his arms wrapped around her instinctively.

"_Scheisse."_


	40. Chapter 38

A bit of a breather chapter. Don't worry. More is coming!

_Checking_

_Checking_

_Checking_

_/_

Incoming transmission

WARMIND ALPHA

Transmitting Status reports to **/SELF/**

Battlecruiser operational

REPORT:

\- Secondary Manufacturing Plant compromised NORTHERN HEMISPHERE

\- Secondary Communication Hub Compromised NORTHERN HEMISPHERE

**\- HUMAN MILITARY ASSETS DESIGNATED**: British Army - 75% attrition

\- Mobilising assets from Primary Manufacturing Plant to accomplish 87% attrition

**STRIKE MISSION** initiated - complement of assets at 82%. Successful deployment: HUMAN MILITARY ASSETS DESIGNATED: British Army - 100% attrition

REPORT ENDS

**/SELF/**

**Continue** \- Operations

**Access of Gateway** \- Complete

**Reinforcements** \- Decanted

**Secure** \- Primary landmass

**Secure** \- Secondary landmass

**/SEND/**

WARMIND Alpha

\- Acknowledge Receipt -

**/SELF/**

**EXPLAIN** \- LOSS - FIELD PROTOTYPE

**/SEND/**

WARMIND Alpha

\- Acknowledge Receipt -

Asset presented flaw: self determined

Asset deployed autonomously

Asset deployed 24.3 [minutes] early

Asset engaged with only 38% chance of engagement success

**CONCLUSION:**

Asset autonomy compounded initial failure

**ADDENDUM**

Asset successfully compromised main OPPOSITION FORCE command structure, diminishing effective response

**CONCLUSION (AMENDED)**

Asset increased success of strike probability to 96.35%

**/SELF/**

\- Acknowledge receipt -

Results forwarded to **CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD**

Amendment added to folder **PROJECT_AVATAR**

_CONTINUE_

**/SEND/**

WARMIND Alpha

\- Acknowledge Receipt -

_Attack_

_Attack_

_Attack_

* * *

The machine was strange. Uncomfortable. Wrong.

_Alien_.

And yet at the same time, it was depressingly mundane.

The interior was like the inside of an Ironclad, or a ferry - grey walls and narrow corridors around the circumference, a ring that ran between the four strange doors that led into the craft. Admittedly the grey came from the strange, burnished metal that also seemed to reflect and drink in the light. The surface shimmered like a rainbow from certain angles.

It was also functional, with protuberances and pipes meant to carry infernal alien wiring or liquids or whatever they used to propel the vehicle.

Zhaojie and a few of the troops stood in the centre of the craft itself. The thing was devoid of anything approximating obvious creature comforts; no crew cabins, no real indicator of fore, aft or any devices. Two rooms with strange green pillars, then a room to the fore that seemed like a bridge, which they were now stood in front of. They had the captive trooper with them, the creature's hands bound. It looked terrified, babbling as it spoke. The problem was it wasn't speaking _English_.

"How. Do. We. Move. It?" growled one of the engineers. He was a demolitions man, but also had experience with mechanical contrivances; EXALT tended to push for troops to have multiple skills. The soldier shook its head and babbled, the inhumanly large eyes wide with fear. Zhaojie sighed and dragged a hand over his face. They'd been at this for a couple of hours, walking the _thing_ around the ship, trying different responses. It understood English, that much was clear, but it seemed to struggle speaking it.

He shouldered forwards and loomed above the creature, which cringed backwards, then leaned forwards to peer at it, "I think, private, we may be asking the _wrong_ questions."

The enemy soldier stared at him, then cocked its head side to side, as if trying to turn away from him. Was he _that_ intimidating?

The Engineer sighed and leaned against one of the strange grey panels that were laid out throughout and shrugged, "Crack on boss, think the thing's slow. Maybe they just go for things that can shoot straight but ain't so good thinkin', y'know?"

Zhaojie shrugged and continued to look at the strange thing as it twisted its head. Once it made a double twist and leaned forwards as if presenting itself. The thing was bald as a newborn, head wrinkled and strange, the back of the head a little more connical than a normal human it had a scar at the base of its skull.

He frowned and cocked his head. The alien froze, head turn almost painfully away. Zhaojie drew a blade from his belt and the thing froze. It closed its eyes and seemed to relax, head bowing slightly. Zhaojie leaned forward and sliced the bonds at its wrists. The things eyes flickered open and several of the soldiers raised their rifles. The thing looked at Zhaojie, then reached one hand up, tentatively and tapped the scar at the back of its head. Then it mimed a sort of explosion from its mouth.

"You cannot answer our questions?" it nodded, "Because of the headwound?" another nod, "Why?"

Ok, that was perhaps a more complex question. But surprisingly, the thing tried to answer. It made a motion, both hands miming a large crown, or helmet, then held a hand up to one ear theatrically. Zhaojie nodded slowly, "Your leaders will… hear?"

The creature nodded vigorously. It mimicked the listening motion again then tapped its head. One of the troops snorted, "It hears their mind?"

The alien pointed at him and nodded. Zhaojie frowned again, "But can they hear you now?" the alien shrugged, then tapped its head, pointed at itself and mimed a throat slitting motion. Clearly these things were human enough to get body language. Or gestures. Had they been people before? That raised some concerning thoughts.

"They think you dead? Or do not care?" that got another shrug, "Will you help us?" the soldier tapped the back of its head then made a palm-down gesture and wobbled its hand, "Can they control you?"

That got a fearful look and a sort of shrug. Then the crown or helmet gesture and another pointing at itself, followed by the thing holding a pair of fingers up in a pinching motion. One soldier frowned, "I think it means… if its close?"

The creature nodded vigorously, then pointed at the tower outside the craft, just visible through the crafts strange bubble-like doors. It slammed a hand into a fist then pointed at itself and made a thumbs up gesture. That actually got a chuckle. Zhaojie managed a faint smile, "So the tower has something to do with control? Command?" another nod. He sighed, "We need you speaking English. Cantonese will take too long. Can barely get the gweilo to speak it."

The alien rolled its eyes and tapped the thing on the back of its head again and shrugged. Zhaojie frowned, "That stops you speaking?" the alien cocked its head and shrugged faintly, then opened its mouth.

"Speak. Some. Bad." The words sounded forced, almost painful, "When leader. Speak. Not. Leader."

So, maybe only the commanders could talk? Or they could only speak under certain situations? What the hell did these monsters _do_? Were all their soldiers like this? He turned away from the alien as boots clattered against the decking and Hackett limped into view.

"Boys are all set. When can we get Jimmy there to fly us out of here?"

Zhaojie was about to speak but he noticed the alien cringing away from Hackett. Its eyes were goggled and it stumbled back, lowering its head in deference. The Lieutenant looked at his Sergeant and cocked an eyebrow. The man shrugged. "You seem to have spooked our guest Sergeant."

"No bloody clue why. Unless he's heard of my prowess and the fact that the British Army is second to none. I am known to inspire terror…" chuckled the man. He looked about and frowned,

"God this place is weird."

"Dull, yes. So much grey."

"Yeah all that weird writing is confusing."

Zhaojie frowned, "What writing?"

Hackett snorted, "You're standing next to a bloody glowing board, Zhang. No time for games."

Zhaojie looked at the grey wall next to him, then looked back at Hackett. He frowned and beckoned, "Follow me Sergeant."

The older man sighed and shrugged, "So that's a no on the flying? Can he even do it or are we yomping it back to find a sodding canoe?"

They entered the bridge, Zhaojie almost dragging the alien behind him. Hackett stepped onto the bridge and whistled. Zhaojie gestured, "As you can see, there is not even a wheel. Or levers."

"Lots of sodding blinky lights though. Bloody headache standing here," Silence fell and Zhaojie stared at the man. Hackett looked at him sideways, "You're giving me the look my mum used to when I told her I hadn't nicked da's tobacco."

"The desks are blank, Sergeant."

"No… no they're lit up like a sodding market at Christmas. Big sodding purple things floating above 'em too."

Zhaojie looked at Hackett then at the soldier, who was staring at Hackett in confusion now, "Why can he see lights?"

The soldier looked at Hackett then at Zhaojie, then pointed at Hackett and mimed the crown gesture again, "The hell does that mean?" muttered the Sergeant.

The lieutenant shook his head, "I think it means he thinks you're the boss."

"Well we all knew that, didn't we. Can't be trusting officers," he grinned and then saw Zhaojie still staring at the soldier, "Sir, I'm getting a bit weirded out here. You're saying I'm seeing lights, he thinks I'm your boss? Pretty sure no one shot me in the head."

Zhaojie looked at the soldier, then at the supposedly blank consoles, "You can fly this vessel?" The soldier shook its head, "Can this vessel _be_ flown?" a nod, "Do you know _how_? By the means of control, or command?"

The alien paused then nodded slowly. Hackett interrupted, "Can we fly it?" The creature looked at him and then waggled its hand, palm down again. Hackett rolled his eyes, "So, we know it can be flown, he can't fly it. But he knows how to."

Zhaojie took a breath, "Why can you not fly it?" he asked. The alien cocked its head, thinking. It held up a single finger, then pointed at itself, made the leader mime and then shook its head. It held a hand to its ear and tapped its head, then shook its head again. Zhaojie nodded, "So, not a thought listener, not a leader… but…"

The alien held up a hand, then made a gesture with two fingers. Then it held a hand lower to the floor, mimed a motion similar to the crown one, but more around its head. It made some monkey-like movements and then pointed at the consoles. Hackett and Zhaojie exchanged glances, "The… grey things are required?" That got a nod. Hackett spoke up, "And the leaders… what… use them to fly?" another vigorous nod.

Zhaojie gave a lopsided grin, "We have some grey ones. Still alive. Can you help with them?" The alien soldier looked pensive, then made the 'not a leader' mime and Zhaojie frowned. Then the alien pointed at Hackett. It gestured to the back of its head, tapped an ear and pointed at him. Then it tapped its head.

That elicited another shared, more exasperated, glance between the two humans, "What the hell?" grumbled Hackett. The alien soldier rolled its eyes. Then it snapped its fingers and spoke, pointing at Hackett, "Think. Num. Bar." The Sergeant glanced at Zhaojie, who just shrugged. He then turned to the alien and frowned. The creature locked eyes with him, then held up its hands, flashing through a series of numbers. Hackett gasped, "Fuck me sideways with a horse cock."

Zhaojie stared at him, "What?"

"Bugger read my mind! Get the eff out you little…" the alien waved its hands placatingly, then pointed at Hackett, then mimed speaking and tapped its head.

"Seems you… sent your thoughts to it?" murmured Zhaojie. Hackett looked shaken, "Something you can tell me, Sergeant?"

"Not a bloody clue boss."

"Something for the good Doctor, perhaps. In the interim, time is not on out side," he looked at the alien, "I think this may help. We will feed you. Do you require anything else?" The alien considered, then pointed at the blade at Zhaojie's belt and then at the back of its head. The Chinaman blinked and then spoke, "Why?"

The alien swallowed, "Danger. Mind. Want. Talk." the effort of the English seemed to nearly send the thing to its knees.

"Can you not cut it out yourself?"

The alien shook its head, "Pain."

Zhaojie grimaced and Hackett nodded slowly, "Don't want to kill the golden goose, eh boss?"

"Yes. I would not know what we were doing? And he is the only one who can maybe help. Until we work out how _you_ can."

"I think that is fairly simple," came a quiet voice as Jiayi stalked in. Hackett exhaled.

"Stop doing that, gives me a bloody heart attack."

She fixed him with a frown, "You aren't in danger from me."

"Still, bloody creepy."

She huffed, muttered something in Cantonese and looked at Zhaojie, "The grey things… they are not really a living thing. They are like cogs. Levers. And they need someone to drive _them_. The Sergeant."

"Hold up now, I can maybe parlour trick some numbers into a tricksy bloody soldier. But… talking to those creepy monkeys? You want me to put my brain near things we _know_ can bugger about with the stuff in our heads?"

She fixed him with a cool stare, "And if we see you go mad, we shoot the grey monkey. Will that suffice?"

Hackett spread his arms and harrumphed, "Lieutenant, could you please drag your little ruddy harpy back in line?" Jiayi bristled and squared up to the Sergeant, "Yeah love, get all tough. I lost most of my fucking men today, haven't had any sleep and got fuckin' _shot_. So excuse me if I feel a bit reluctant to take Mr Bug Eyes Miraculous Brain Squeeze of a solution."

"Enough." Zhaojies voice was hard. He looked at Jiayi, "Your idea is not without merit. But the Sergeant is correct. We must know the risks. What if the things decided _not_ to listen while we were in the air?"

The woman frowned but nodded. She turned to Hackett and bowed slightly, "My apologies. I sought only to provide a solution."

Hackett glared at her then seemed to sag, "Bugger it. Bugger it all. I'm grabbing a brew."

He slouched off, shoulders hunched. Jiayi looked at Zhaojie and flung a hand up in a 'see what I have to deal with'. The Lieutenant chuckled morosely, "What did you expect?"

"Him to do his duty?"

"And what is that, little blade? If I give you a Maxim gun and tell you to carry it with all its ammunition and take out a platoon, would you?"

She frowned, "I would… question, perhaps. But I would try."

"And then you would die. And maybe the people with you would die. Duty is very good. But duty with a sense of _how_ to execute it effectively is better. So, maybe, if this is the way… we should explore the _how_. As well as whether it is the _only_ way."

He looked at the alien next to him, who was quiet, almost subdued. Jiayi frowned at it, "What do we do with it?"

"Feed…. Him. Keep him away from the troops. Try to talk to him. Glean what you can. And find out what is in his head."

"Interrogate?"

"No. There is actually something _in_ his head. We should see if we can perhaps remove it. Or at least understand it."

* * *

Hackett trudged across the open space between the broken tower building and the landing pad, moving away from the dratted ship. What he'd thought was ringing in his ears he now realised was a low hum from the ship. But no one else seemed to hear it. He nearly stumbled as he approached the building, blinking his eyes rapidly as his head throbbed. He'd felt _something_ all through this bloody mission. And back in London, in that sewer. What was it? He remembered _knowing_ that one of those discs had been coming. He remembered the weird sense of confusion he'd felt that had seemed to spread to the enemies in that damned factory.

And now one of their soldiers could hear when he thought?

He moved to where a small cooking pot had been set up, just outside the front entrance. Corporal Essex was squatting near it and did a double take as he saw Hackett's expression.

"Sarge, you alright?"

"Fuck no. Fuck this. Fuck this bleeding war," he let out a sigh, "I'm too bloody tired for this. Any stew left, feel I need a bloody stiffener though."

Essex grinned and fished a canteen from his belt and handed it over, "Some of the lads found a few abandoned bottles of some good stuff. A bar, apparently, have buried. Should take the edge off."

The Sergeant took a swig and gave half a grin, "Drinking on the job, Corporal?"

The man met his gaze, "Handed it over, like a goodun, though. Thought you might want to check for contraband."

Hackett chuckled, took another swig, then handed it back, "Eh, we could be dead in ten minutes. As long as you can shoot mostly straight. Bloody hell, what's got into me."

The Corporal shrugged and reattached the canteen to his belt, before turning back to the stew, "Survived an impossible battle and now stuck in the middle of enemy territory?"

"Sharp bloody tongue, lad."

"Eh, use what god gave you, my ma said." he cocked his head as he ladled out some stew into a mess tin and handed it to the Sergeant, "So, scuse the impertinence, but what's got you looking like a rupert who just got found with the maid?"

Hackett huffed, shooting the junior a glare, but he couldn't keep it up, "Weird stuff, Essex. Weird bloody stuff," he fished a fork from one of the pouches on his belt and scarfed the stew down, practically inhaling it, then handed the tin back, "Need to think. Lieutenant has a plan with the ship but… need one of them little grey buggers to pull it off."

"Them creepy little arseholes? That why we're keeping the two we bundled alive?"

Hackett sighed, "Thought we'd haul them back somehow. The Doctor always wants more. Maybe this lot, being in an HQ would be different," the Sergeant sighed, then tilted his head back,

"So, where are they stashed?"

Essex thumbed back to the building, "Upstairs. Got a couple of lads watching them. Docile now we got those halo things on 'em. And that second hybrid fellah. Less chatty than the wounded one. Mainly cos he's still out cold."

"We got two?"

"Think your lot brought one up here, we snagged another one. God knows how we're going to ship the blighters down south though."

Honestly, Hackett was a bit vague on the details himself. His mind was foggier than he liked. The pulse of combat, blood loss, the trek up to this blasted place. He was exhausted. But he was also a _Sergeant_. And it wouldn't do to let that show. H nodded at Essex. "Cheers. Right, get the lads fed. Think the Lieutenant will want us shipping out soon, one way or another. If we can't use that thing, well… it's a long walk."

The Corporal grimaced but nodded, then set about chivvying the troops to grab some food, several filing out from the building, while others stood up from where they'd been leaning in the rubble. Hackett made his way inside then climbed the stairs. He walked past the collapsed floor and into one of the side rooms. The building was sparsely furnished, but he could see flickering purple and yellow displays. They cast no light, so he had a sneaking suspicion that only _he_ could see them.

Had he hit his head that hard?

The Insectoids were huddled in a corner of the sideroom, the comatose trooper laying on the floor nearby. They'd tied the creature's hands and ankles, just in case. Two soldiers stood inside, watching the captives. The grey creatures were disarmed, their wrist weapons having been removed. That alone seemed to make them much more docile. The set of silver crowns, made of alien alloy and a few streaks of copper reinforced that.

The creatures were always jittery when they were captured, often having to be leashed or dragged on rope to stop them skittering off, or just to keep them still. The "halos" made them pretty passive, much like putting the hood on a hawk. Which meant he was surprised that both of the things turned and fixed him with a stare as soon as he entered.

The soldiers tensed, glancing between the Sergeant and the creatures Hackett rubbed an eye with a knuckle and frowned. The buzz was back, but muted this time. And this time it came from… the creatures. It sounded like a quieter version of the hum from the ship.

"You ok Sarge?" whispered one of the soldiers, his gaze drifting between the aliens and his Sergeant. Hackett waved him away.

"Grab one of the shock rods from downstairs. Want to… try something," what the hell was he doing? He'd come over here to get some space. But he'd made a beeline for the sodding _aliens_? He grumbled internally - Zhaojie was right, they couldn't really just trek south without trying. And this way he could show that this wouldn't work and then they could go find a working boat.

And fight the lost.

And try to get back to London before that bloody huge ship that had been here but now wasn't… got there.

That last thing worried him the most. And unsettled him. Something that large _couldn't_ or _shouldn't_ be in the air. Wasn't natural. Went against god. Or something.

He blinked, realising how tired he was. This was clearly a terrible idea. The clatter of the trooper returning, but with another man in tow, roused him from the daydream. The Insectoids were watching him. Motionless.

"Right. You, take one of their halos off. You, standby with the sodding lance. See any purple stuff from it, or it looks like it's doing that weird hand wavy buggery, then zap it and put the halo back on, got it?"

The three men chorused "yes sergeant", then went to it. The first man stepped forward and plucked the halo from one of the creatures then practically leapt backwards as the thing straightened. The lance-man readied his staff, whilst the third soldier shifted, uncertain. Hackett just stared at the creature, his brain a whirl of exhaustion, confusion, fear. And loss.

Wait. Loss?

The emotions roiled around him, familiar and yet somehow _off_. He was tired, yes. But this was a sense of exhaustion that wasn't settled in his own muscles or his own mind. A wave of fear rolled over him but again, it felt _off_.

"Sarge… is it… I think I see purple."

Hackett blinked, then laughed, "Oh you little sod," he fixed the small, grey alien with a glare and the thing suddenly backed away, "Tryin' to get in my head, were you? But you ain't feelin exactly chipper, are you, me old china?"

The alien looked confused and a word floated to the forefront of his mind. _Chosen?_

"No a clue you ugly little gibbon."

_Avatar?_

"Buggered if I know."

_Elder?_

"Well, ain't you a sodding cheeky one," he gestured at the guard with the lance, "It's trying to wobble my brain."

The man stepped forward, readying the lance and the creature flicked its gaze at him. Hackett saw a swirl of purple and he reacted. As he stepped forward to help the man a thought crossed his brain in tandem: _NO!_

The alien rocked on its feet and fell backwards. The lance soldier blinked in surprise, "Didn't touch it Sarge."

Hackett blinked. Then he grinned, "Nah. But I think I gave it a slap. Let's see…"

* * *

Jiayi lounged outside the strange craft as, inside, _Zhu Zhang_ tried to communicate with the strange creature. They'd dragged it to where Essex had been handing out stew, which the creature had eaten with only a faint grimace. Then _Zhu Zhang_ had taken it back to the ship to ask more questions. The light was fading on another day. Idly, she wondered where Hackett had gone. He'd vanished from the ship and had been inside for a good couple of hours. She'd had time to conduct a patrol and he hadn't come back out.

There was irritation there, for his fear. But she was also somewhat sympathetic. She remembered hiding in the ports, as a young girl, from the unpleasant attentions of European sailors and unscrupulous city officials looking to "rough it" in the dock areas. She'd had to make tough decisions to survive, to keep her family alive. Put herself at risk, perhaps put others at risk for a greater reward.

The man seemed to understand but she couldn't really understand what it was that _Zhu Zhang_ wanted from the Sergeant. It seemed to go beyond just telling the strange creatures what to do. Compelling them on a deeper level? But _how_?

She heard a commotion over by the communication building and did a double take. In a moment she was on her feet, rifle unslung and levelled at the door.

"Hah. Nice to get one over on you for once," the voice came from the shadows of the building

A little grey creature waddled out of the door, the soldiers outside unsure, weapons ready. Out of the shadow of the door stepped Hackett. His forehead was slick with sweat and his gaze was mostly focused on the squat creature in front of him.

"Sergeant. It has you in its thrall!" she readied her rifle. And then the creature flopped onto its back, miming death throes as it clutched its heart. Or where a heart would be on a human. It then splayed its arms out, theatrically.

She blinked, then looked at the Sergeant. The man seemed unsteady on his feet and a soldier was hovering nearby, ready to grab him, "Playing… the little bugger… like a fiddle. Look! No hands!"

The man's words were slurring and his eyes had a faintly manic glint - shock, fear, exhilaration? It was hard to tell. Jiayi watched as Hackett waved a soldier forward. The man tentatively put a halo device on the creature. The impact was instant, the small creature seeming to seize up into a foetal position. Hackett slumped and let out a breath, more a wheeze.

"Bloody hell that leaves one hell of a hangover."

She looked from the creature to Hackett, confused, "_Shenme gui?!"_

Hackett looked up and gave a lopsided grin and ran a hand through the grey-brown stubble on his chin, "Guess that's means you're a bit shocked. Oh I _like_ that expression. Bloody finally. Guess the ruddy Snow Queen can be shocked."

She glared at him, then gestured to the alien, "What happened?"

"Took your advice. Bull by the horns. That sort of bollocks. The Lieutenant still chinwagging with the bug-eyed bugger?"

She nodded, still shocked. The Sergeant waved for the trooper to pick up the grey creature. Jiayi followed, slinging her rifle over her shoulder, "What.. so you can talk to them?"

The Sergeant nodded, "In a way. They're tricky little sods. Nasty thoughts."

She stared at him, "You seem… at ease?"

He paused and looked at her, "No. Not really. I can hear fucking monsters think. And they can hear me. Frankly, I'm torn between shooting it, shooting myself or maybe some sort of alcohol based oblivion. Cos I feel right buggered now," his eyes were hard, and she could see he was shaking slightly, "But apparently I'm the only bastard who seems to be able to stoke the boiler, so let's just go and talk to the Lieutenant, see what we can see."

"And what do you think that will be?" she asked cautiously, turning her head to look at him askance.

He had half turned away, then looked back at her, "I just want to know where we bolt this little bastard in. And then see if we can't get this ruddy Arabian nightmare of a flying house up in the air. Now, chinwag done, or do you want me to grab you a beer, take you down the music hall?"

She recoiled and frowned. The man seemed on a bit of a knife edge. Considering a few days ago his droll observations and weathered attitude had pushed them all along, this seemed unnerving. She watched as he and the soldier frogmarched the little creature into the craft.

This was turning into a stranger trip than she had anticipated.


	41. Chapter 39

"North tower needs more ammunition!"

"Easter wall, probing assaul…"

"Reports from West end, Tripods have reached Covent Garden, weapons in range."

"Southbank batteries reporting rocket resupply, firing in 5 minutes."

"Hidden batteries reporting breach-blast in two guns, mortar teams report ranges fixed…"

"We've lost position in Latimer road, Shepherds Bush."

The situation room was a cacophony of noise, shouting, rushing troopers and scrambling guards. Beyond the walls the air was thrumming with the non-stop firing of rifles, electrical canons and distant artillery. And beyond that, the white noise of people screaming.

The assault had been a crystal moment of fear, terror distillent and dipped into the mind of every refugee in London. The tripods had slammed into the ground, collapsing buildings and sending shockwaves across the city. The sky had filled with descending rocket-monsters and white discs. Underground stations had exploded out as creatures from nightmare had tunnelled through walls and sliced into huddling refugees seeking shelter underground.

The monsters appeared set on slicing the city up, securing it and driving those civilians not already easily penned in towards the east of the city, to cause and sow as much chaos as possible.

Of course, that had been their intent - a lightning thrust, destroy everyone in perhaps a single hour.

But they hadn't counted on the fact that London had been preparing for an assault. Admittedly, these cunning creatures had bypassed the outer defences - a set of frankly embarrassingly large explosive stockpiles setup in the suburbs, intended to channel and destroy swathes of the enemy should they begin to break through at key roads or train tracks.

But they had other weapons.

The rockets Shen had been stockpiling; the extra artillery they'd jury-rigged or made themselves from scrap and cast offs; the bunkered militia and press-ganged police and civilians with any sort of firearm to hand. And even some without.

They'd spread the launch areas and batteries across London, hiding them in buildings or atop warehouses. Men had been garrisoned near the refugee centres, as both a police and guard force. They hadn't expected betrayal, but by dint of their natural caution, Smytheson's people hadn't been brought in on _these_ preparations.

So, when the tripods had dropped, when the sky had swarmed with horrors, Anderson and Vahlen had scrambled to the command centre and belted out orders like it was going out of fashion.

The first Tripods on the ground had begun burning things in their line of sight, blasting the dome of St Pauls, igniting many buildings in the West end.

Until one of them had been smashed by twelve guns that had been rapidly retargeted. Every battery, despite their rather fixed points of aim, had a series of ranged calculations prepared, and there were plenty of artillery officers on hand to make the adjustments and dispatch them. All that time at Woolwich paying off.

The aliens had been slow to react, clearly thinking the assault was closer at hand, as the tripods had refocused on nearby buildings. This had, ironically, delayed their advance as this appeared to impede their own ground forces which were being ferried from the vast, grey vessel by hovering platforms. They were visible even from the tower.

They cottoned on when a stray shell knocked one of those platforms apart, sending twenty creatures of various shapes tumbling the five hundred feet to the ground below.

The enemy lost another two tripods, albeit one of those only seemed to be damaged, before the others hunkered down and began a strange swaying advance, using the buildings as cover. And they all seemed to have decided to head east.

That advance had been halted when the rockets were launched.

Five thousand missiles, from carefully plotted sites across the city, sent streaking through the air. Rockets were a lot easier to reposition than cannons, the latter of which were inside buildings and thus required a lot more in the way of manpower to reorient if, say, they were facing south.

A lot of the missiles exploded in the air, or were intercepted by the screeching horrors in the skies. But that, too, bought some time, as the aliens rained, wounded and dead, from the air.

The rockets themselves weren't especially powerful, but still blasted into buildings and down into the streets, spreading chaos among the invaders. Their targets were grouped, meaning the flight was concentrated and reports said another two walkers had been disabled. An observer from one of the balloons above reported several direct hits on another walker that appeared to have killed its pilot as the machine seemed to have stopped in Hammersmith, in a sort of half slump.

But it was still a knife edge.

At least twenty five walkers advancing across London. The machine in the sky had begun dropping them a good few miles away, meaning the damn things were spread into Acton, Ealing, and Kensington. If one got a decent line of sight on their position, then it would be able to cook the men on the ramparts, maybe even melt through the windows. The building was stone, so less likely to go up. But if they got in range to launch the black smoke, well… that was a whole other nightmare.

Anderson leaned on the map table, glaring at the red markers spread across London. Small stacks of what looked like gambling chips were spread around, representing estimated collections of enemy forces. It'd been forty five minutes since the horrors had made their initial assault and they seemed to be content to just pummel away, clearly slightly disoriented by their artillery barrage. But they wouldn't be able to sustain it for long. They had, maybe another three volleys of missiles and he didn't want to saturate London with shelling unless they were sure of targets.

"Another balloon down, sir," came a despondent voice. Anderson heard Bradford swear.

"God _dammit_. They know we have observers. How?"

"Heat ray, some of the walkers are taking shots. Range seems to mitigate their effectiveness."

"Water content in the air, perhaps?" that was Vahlen. She hadn't returned to her lab, mainly because Anderson had flatly told her 'no'. And he'd made the point that if _he_ wasn't allowed to do stupid heroic things in the name of this mission, then he was going to be thrice damned if _she _was.

She'd smiled at that, at least.

"Water?" he asked, looking up from the map. Moira nodded at him.

"_Ja_. Shen and I have surmised that the heat of the weapon can be focused and increased with more power draw. This has diminishing returns; you experienced this with how long the weapons take to charge if they fire too much of a concentrated burst. Also, the impact diminishes with range. We wondered at that, but it's simple physics. The beam of the weapon is impacted by all manner of things - heat blooming away through the air, power at the source, moisture. Try keeping a fire going when it's damp? _Das gleiche_."

He nodded, "Ok, so, what?"

"The balloons are high. It's colder up there, more moisture. The beams may lose their impact. But enough blasts will still burn through, like an ant under a magnifying glass."

Anderson shuddered, "I don't like the idea of being scrutinised, like things that swarm and multiply in a drop of water."

She nodded, "I do feel we are being toyed with."

Bradford joined them, "Yeah, what the hell is that damn ship doing? Don't it have weapons?"

"It may not yet be in a position to use them. Somehow, a ship the size of most of bloody Kensington is just bloody _floating_ above London," Anderson ran a hand through his hair, "Any word from Shen?"

"Fighting on the south bank; some of Smytheson's boys trying a raid, but found that the locals don't take too kindly to interlopers," Bradford grinned, "And he says he needs ten more minutes."

"Can he sight anything from there?"

Bradford gestured at the sky, "Big damn target…."

Anderson chewed his lip, "And if it doesn't work,"

Bradford offered a shrug, "How much more pissed off can we make these guys? They've dropped a fuck tonne of troops here. This feels a bit hail mary, don't it?"

Anderson's smile was a snarl, "Then we make them bleed for it. Street by street. Lane by lane. We make. Them. _Bleed._"

* * *

Out on the ramparts, the world was going insane. Maxim guns had been set up in nests, surrounded by sandbags. Mortars were positioned in the grounds, thunking canisters into the streets beyond. Troops tramped along the stone walkways and into the wooden archery sheds atop the walls, taking shots at the enemy.

As soon as the ship had arrived, creatures had begun an assault on their fortress. A large disc, the size of a barge, had zipped down, setting down somewhere near Aldgate. That had resulted in fifteen Mutons and a good three score of the strange hybrid troops attempting an assault from the north.

They'd found that the ground was _not_ in their favour: a slope into the castle moat, then solid stonework and no doorways. The firing positions and archery slits meant the defenders could take easy potshots and the enemy had found their ill advised assault left them open.

Ten Mutons and twenty five dead hybrids later, the attackers had withdrawn, circling through back streets, only to be ambushed by militia bunking in nearby buildings.

Most of the loyal troops were bunkering up in upper levels of hotels and stone buildings around the castle, offering another layer of defence. The order had gone out to harry only, to not draw attention, and then to provide fire support from the rear once the attacks hit the walls of the castle.

The refugees, unfortunately, were _not_ helping. They had started as a trickle, but now there was a stream. Some were clearly just trying to get to the bridge, to head south, or to just push further east,

A few sprinted for the castle, trying the batter on the closed wooden doors, screaming for sanctuary. All the while, shots were traded with monsters hiding in the burnt out buildings opposite.

A sergeant bellowed for men to clear the gates, some men argued about letting to civvies in.

"Where to, you nonce? To do what? Give 'em a rifle and have 'em join you on the wall? Or d'ya want a grateful lass for when you live through this?"

The men had been sent scrambling. A fight broke out near the door as a couple of men tried to be gallant. The first civvie through the partially open door shifted into an eight foot tall clay beast that tried to break the damn doors open. Admittedly, that sent most of the other immediate refugees scrambling away. And a series of close range blasts from five shotguns held by the gate defenders had reduced the horror to a bubbling pile.

The gate was resecured and the pale and chastened soldiers pushed to take up positions on the northern walls, well away from temptation.

And then the Chrysalids came. They were called that by Vahlen. The soldiers just called them Lobsters.

There must've been a hundred of the damn things; they boiled out of the sewer entries that led to the Thames, and out of shattered windows. Gunfire from the surrounding buildings showed they were also attempting to rout the garrisons.

The beasts just charged the wall, a roiling mass of chitin and claws. And what was worse was that, when they hit the wall, they went _straight up it._

Soldiers were shouting all along the line, maxim guns sweeping through the throng, sending lines of tracers and lead into the swarm. Shotguns barked as creatures crested the ramparts. In places, men fell, entangled with horrors that stabbed and stabbed at them as they tumbled. Troops beyond the walls rushed to help, only to find their comrades staggering upright, lurching towards them.

"Kill the bloody bastards! They hatch more!"

The warning went round like wildfire, but it caused confusion - did the wounded count? Medics charged up dragging wounded away before uncertain comrades could do the aliens work for them.

A lightning gun fired from atop the keep, sending a rod out beyond the walls. An arc of electricity shot between the gun and its target, before it leapt out, striking through and spreading across a portion of the swarm. The creatures cooked in their shells.

Along the northern wall, men in the courtyard lined up and yelled for their comrades on the walls to duck. As they did, the line aimed and fired, felling a wave of creatures that crested the lip of the wall, sending them tumbling down and buying the wall-men time to lean out and fire down into the dwindling scramble.

"Fliers incoming!"

The insects still came, but their numbers were thinning. But they were reinforced by a swarm of the gurgling rocket-men. Maxim guns pivoted and lanced the sky. A lightning gun discharged the bolt lancing up without a target. But it connected to one flier, leapt to two more, before fading out to an after image. The creatures tumbled, the remainder scattering. They zipped in strange zig-zag patterns, firing wildly at the fort below. A couple plucked grenades and hovered, ready to throw.

One didn't get a chance as its head vanished into red mist from a sniper. The second managed to toss its ordinance before it twitched in the air, stitched by multiple rifles trained on it.

The grenade blasted a mortar to pieces, sending the men to the ground to lie motionless. Smoke filled the courtyard and walls, drifting all around as gunpowder burned and bullets roared.

A line of soldiers drew down and sent a volley into the swooping horrors, sending a half dozen into the Thames, where the creatures floundered and wailed, their own weight dragging them under.

A crackled of machine gun fire from across the water sent the fliers fleeing, as the crew of the Ironclad attempted to lend a hand.

Around the castle yellowish smoke burst as more mortars fired, delivering an unpleasant chemical payload. Anderson hadn't been a great fan, but this was distilled from a mixture of some of Shen's toxins, Vahlens experience with biology and the extracts from the strange, near-human snake-men.

The gas sent the hybrids to their knees, eyes bleeding and lungs coughing up chunks. The mutons in the buildings were less impacts, but were still disoriented. It allowed men to draw down with their new direct-mortar-petard launchers, blasting cover and building frontages apart. Which in turn allowed others to gun down the hulking monsters.

A set of the floating discs attempted to reinforce, unfolding into flying scorpions that stitched yellow blasts along the walls, sending men pinwheeling away or diving for cover. A steam gun tore one in twain, the blot embedding in the metal horror before detonating. The other two attempted to reposition, but one got an unpleasant shock as two maxim guns send a burst of modified rounds into it, augmented by alien alloys. The thing spun in mid air and exploded, which sent its companion, unfolded as it was, into a spin of its own, before concentrated rifle fire tore it apart.

On all sides, the battle raged.

* * *

WARMIND Alpha

\- Commander designates: **REPORT:**

COMMANDER DESIGNATES -

\- Acknowledge receipt -

:: Observation indicates **BOUNDARY BREACHED**

:: Initial assault on **BRITISH ARMY** successful

:: Additional auxiliary forces identified

**:: SAMPLES **prevalent in Operational Area

:: Multiple locations for suppression identified - adjusting advance for SERVITOR PRESERVATION

:: Damage to SECTOPOD division. Assets SALVAGEABLE. Temporary DISRUPTION

:: Location designated **BASTION** resisting subjugation

:: Location designated **DOCK** assigned as secondary target

:: Location designated **LABORATORY** assigned as tertiary target

:: Request update on targets for SERVITORS

WARMIND Alpha

\- Acknowledge receipt of **REPORT**

\- Continue: assault **BASTION - **delay will result in increased SERVITOR ATTRITION

\- Hold locations of: **SAMPLES**

\- Secure perimeters

\- Advance and annul - strategic targets and mapping in attached files / thought maps

\- EXPEDIENCE - annul and secure. Annul. Secure.

\- Focus Forces.

\- OVERWHELM

\- ANNUL

COMMANDER DESIGNATES

\- Acknowledge receipt -

* * *

Anderson glared at the map again, "Movements?"

"Five tripods ahead of the rest, pushing our way. They're popping up where we fire a salvo, trying to zero in on the batteries. Got reports of black smoke launches into refugee areas the aliens don't control," Bradford's voice was calm, collected. Just.

"Any idea about areas they hold?"

"Secured, it seems. They're just holding the civvies. Maybe as hosts for those damn Chryssalids. Send another wave at us?"

"Dear lord, let's hope not. So, five walkers, we can barely take one. The advanced cannons?"

"We sent most off with the Support Tractors, but Shen insisted we keep _eine kleine_ for emergencies. The prototype is on the roof, concealed, also one on the south bank. We have them both hooked to our own generators, so not much in the way of firepower beyond a couple of shots," Vahlen pursed her lips.

"Sir! We've got additional movement!"

Anderson raised his eyebrows at the young soldier who'd dashed up to the table, "Really?" he responded wearily, gesturing at the map.

"Sir, more air-craft. Two large vessels, moving from… high up?"

Anderson blinked and shook his head, "Show me…"

The trooper led him to the door. Outside was a madhouse, wreathed in white smoke from gunpowder discharge and the odd fire. The trooper pointed up. And there indeed two shapes descending, far to the west. They looked similar to the vast ship above the city currently, but somehow a little _less_ imposing."

"What the devil."

He returned inside, face pale, "Reinforcements?" he looked at Vahlen, then Bradford, "What do we do if they dump another sixty tripods on us? Another fifty thousand monsters?"

Bradford slumped and shook his head. Vahlen licked her lips and gave a stiff shudder. Anderson balled his fists and growled. Another soldier jogged up, "Sir, recognise them."

Anderson arched an eyebrow, "What?"

"They're um.. . well, I was up in Liverpool, sir, just joined. Refugee. But, saw them ships before."

The man blanched as he realised that the three leaders of EXALT were now staring at him, "Go on," murmured Bradford.

"Uh, well, sir, they're transports."

"Shit."

"Well, maybe sir. But mainly they're for transporting… us."

The three fixed him with confused looks until Vahlen clapped her hands, "_Jawohl_, reports of people being loaded onto ships in the north. You think these are the same?"

The man nodded and the three leaders shared a glance. As one, they spoke, "The refugees…"

Bradford shook his head, "But they haven't secured the city… why not wait, kill us and do it?"

Anderson felt a slow grin stretch over his face, "They aren't sure they _can_…." he looked up at the other two, "We know they're an arrogant bunch, with how they send paltry numbers at us and then throw everything when that doesn't work. We've seen how they _see_ us. But this… we haven't rolled over. They've got so many soldiers on the ground but they're _still fighting_. So, they want to grab what they can. If they do win, well, better safe than sorry. If they don't… they want _something_."

"How does this help us?" muttered Vahlen.

"It doesn't, immediately… but we know they'll be spending a lot of their troops loading up panicked, potentially violent civvies _and_ focusing mostly on _here_," he gestured at the map, "Concentration of force. Keep us bottled up, get the refugees out, then squash us. That's probably why the big ship is holding back. They didn't expect artillery and missiles. We're in a stalemate."

Bradford shook his head, chuckling, "If only they knew… they could roll over us…"

"Something spooked them more than they'd like. _Ich wunder mich_," vahlen mused to herself.

Anderson punched his palm, "let's play this to our advantage. I want whatever garrisoned or bunkered troops we have spread out to push forward, half circle around those Tripods… and hit them from the rear. The other half, push into towards the refugee camps those bastards hold and break the bloody locks."

The other two stared at him, "But… the civilians could get caught in the crossfire."

Anderson hung his head, "Either we try to free them and risk some chaos… or we let those bastards up and take them. And we _know_ what they'll do. The chaos will distract the bastards."

Bradford shifted, "Not exactly comfortable, sir."

Anderson nodded, "Duly noted. If you have other ideas, please express them. I want those troopers to try to open ways out that minimise casualties - blast a wall open, break through cellars, knock out as many guards as possible. But we're fighting in a city. We've got enemy everywhere."

Bradford chewed his lip and nodded slowly, "It's a shit pie. As long as you don't want us using them as human shields."

Anderson shook his head, "No. But we need to keep the aliens spread out. We can free those people closer to us, that'll split them as they try to corral. And then the guys can do some damage, bring some buildings down. Get on it Major."

"Sir," Bradford still looked troubled but nodded and headed to brief the telegraph operators and communications staff. Vahlen stepped up and frowned at Anderson, resting a hand gently on his shoulder.

"That was… a difficult decision, Commander…. _William_."

He looked up at her and offered a weak smile, "I know. I'm likely going to hell. It's ugly. Warfare shouldn't touch the common man as much as this. And now… now I see a throng of trapped people much as I would one of Shen's smoke grenades. A battlefield distraction," he hung his head and punched the table lightly, "I'm no better than Tasseter."

"_Die mund halten_. It's easy for people to judge from the outside, what they do not _versteht_. Understand. I have been there. The woman in science, mocked for trying to achieve things, derided. Told my ideas were foolish and that I did not understand the true _challenges_."

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes, "I bet you skinned them alive."

She managed a half smile, "Worse. I proved them _wrong_. Bradford will likely want to shout at you, but deep down he understands. And, really.. He's scared about what he would have to decide to do, were you not here, my _liebchen_."

He reached up and placed a hand over the one on his shoulder, "Hell will be bearable, with the memory of you face."

She gave a half smile, "Put it off as long as you can. I want you to meet my father first."

Anderson gave a mock shudder, "I'll take two tripods, please…"

They settled into silence, listening as orders went out, the battle continuing to rage outside. The whistle of more rockets in the distance and the ullulations of the aliens as they continued their push through the city.

"Another tripod down, artillery point blank from ambush site _Paddington #3_/"

"Mines detonated in Baker Street. Civilian casualties… high. Garrison forces in retreat, enemy holding for now."

"Reports they're crossing the river in Battersea. Militia harrying but three Tripods on advance."

"Black smoke reported in Fulham, Clapham, Mayfair and Brixton…. Communication with militia lost."

"Ammunition stocks running low at the following locations…"

"Reports of Chryssalid attacks in North London…"

"...aerial assaults in…"

"...fires spreading across…"

The noise surged as the map became a crowd of stacked chips and Tripod icons. A scant few of those were tipped on their sides, having been destroyed or disabled. Anderson glared at the dwindling stack of blue and green chips.

"Report from runners that two refugee stockades have been breached, enemy appears to be holding and re-evaluating."

A small cheer went around the room. It was cut short with another report, "First transport has landed, Ealing."

More reports as the room shook. Why hadn't they bombarded the fort with black smoke? Too many friendlies? Or did they want… something? Maybe they wanted to see what kind of creatures put up such staunch defence? Or did they want Smytheson back, the little weasel?

"Second transport ship now descending to Kensington."

Outside, the two new vessels were visible, one much further away and seemingly smaller as it vanished over the horizon. The closer one was just a long cuboid thing, more rectangle. It was… functional. A box. Anderson was, honestly, faintly disappointed. Where was the style?

A shout from the communications bench pulled him back into the room, "Sir! Dock is under concerted assault. Reports of mutons… and something bigger. It's… punching everything."

Anderson growled, "Berserkers. Why there?"

Vahlen frowned, "Maybe honing in on our foundries? They do understand logistics…"

"True. And maybe the captives. These things are… psychic or whatever. Can they track them?"

The Doctor shrugged, her face worried, "We have crowns on them, we have them isolated. But who knows how they monitor and track things."

"Sir, the new ships are descending faster, making lines for Ealing and Kensington at current projected angles," that was an artillery officer, near one of the cork boards. Another soldier turned from a field telephone.

"Main enemy vessel is beginning to turn. Seems they finished off loading their troops."

Anderson swore, "So maybe now they'll start using the big guns. I have a feeling that thing is a warship. Which means… broadsides maybe? Anything we can do?"

The artilleryman shook his head, "We could re-angle the remaining rockets, it's a bit far though sir. Reports indicate the rocket batteries we had close to have been cleaned out, either from running out or enemy action. And our main guns may not have the range."

The damn thing was too high in the sky _and_ too far away. Of all the blasted luck.

"Sir, Shen reports the enemy have broken into the dock, making for the Ironclad."

"Maybe they recognise the ship type. They know we've used those to get rid of tripods before… taking no chances."

Anderson walked to the door again and plucked a set of Binoculars from a nearby trooper, sighting through them across the water to where the ironclad was laid up near the Hays Wharf.

He could make out red figures brawling through crates, followed by a few green-armoured mutons. Those damnable hybrids were just visible jogging between stacked crates. The Ironclad was still draped in several tarpaulins, an attempt to hide most of its shape, but the thing was so massive.

Bradford came up behind him, "Jesus sir, what are we going to do."

"Sir! Shen reports he's activati-"

Across the water, something flashed. And the air around the ironclad turned to steam. The thames roiled as waved flashed across its surface, rushing in to replace the flash heated and displaced water. Anderson groaned and blinked his eyes where a line was superimposed onto his vision.

A distant _boom_ echoed across the city and Anderson turned his view to the West. He stared.

The vast vessel was listing slightly, explosions blossoming across part of its midsection. Detonations rippled through parts of it as systems inside seemed to be going into meltdown.

Beyond, the transport ship was also listing. It had been behind the enemy vessel and the shot had seemed to lance straight through the battleship to hit the smaller transport vessel. As he watched, the descending transport spun slowly, lazily and crunched into the side of the battleship, sending more explosions echoing out. The transport clipped under the battleship, which seemed to be rising up and, even from here, Anderson could see sparks showering and debris raining down as the two ship tore chunks from one another as they screeched past.

The transport trailed smoke and Anderson though he could spy a blast hole in its flank. The rear engines on the thing were sputtering intermittently. It spun, so slowly, as if weighed nothing. Drifting to the ground deceptively slowly.

Foghorn noises blared from the battleship as it ascended. Lances of green spat out at random, blasting columns of smoke across London. Lances of white light spat out, carving away at buildings, as the thing lashed out like a child with a tantrum. But it wasn't an attack.

No, the vessel was pulling away, trying to get distance.

Were they afraid they'd get hit again?

Anderson had to crouch as the transport ship hit the ground in Kensington. All around men staggered and fell, the shockwave rattling windows and blasting a cloud of dust high into the air. The shockwave of the impact roared over them and windows shattered. The smoke was blasted away and more explosions echoed city.

Anderson made it to his feet and looked through the binoculars across the water to the ironclad.

The front of the vessel was a mess of melted metal. The Thames was a maelstrom of roiling water and shockwaves, the vessel bobbing in the rocking water. The tarpaulins had most burnt away revealing that most of the ship seemed intact. The two forward turrets were a mess, though. A tangle of new superstructure and what looked like cranes overlaid the massive cannons, which seemed to mainly be housings for what now seemed to be slag.

All around the ship Anderson could see prone forms, all smoking. The mutons that had been attacking the ship, along with their hybrid allies. Now all boiled alive, it seemed.

In the distances, fires lit the sky. It was as if the world held its breath.

_**UUULLLAALLAAAAAAA!**_


	42. Chapter 40

The vessel rumbled and lurched. There were shouts of surprise and shock, as well as muttered curses. Hackett leaned against a wall and felt his stomach churn. His head throbbed and he could feel his vision blur. Again.

A hand rested gently on his shoulder and he hunched slightly, looking back at the concerned face of Jiayi.

He blinked, feeling the cloying thoughts of _them_ at the edge of his mind. Subservient. Accepting. Wheedling. Suggestive. Vindictive.

His mind brought an image to the fore - an old memory. From when he'd been a fresh face lad, shipped off to some god-forsaken patch of soil in the Empire. The Corporal had been a weasely sort, rail thin, always with a sneer for the men, a boot to be planted and a backhand for any chat. The man had conned them out of wages, cheated at cards and beaten the younger recruits when he got the chance. But when the sergeant or officer swept past for an inspection he was all smiles and jovial. Laughing with the boys, slapping backs, acting like the stern parent who secretly has a soft spot for you.

Nasty to the core. Shame about the asagai he'd caught in the gut.

Really mysterious as there weren't any Zulu about in Egypt.

The thoughts were similar. Opportunistic. And despite their stature, the little grey bastards were, apparently _old_. And practiced. So, that wheedling, that cloying sense, that subservience was close to a mask.

They were waiting for him to slip up. To seize control. But nothing overt. That craven sense that you could read in their body language _saturated_ their minds. He couldn't articulate it, couldn't explain the feeling of engaging with the horrors. It wasn't a conversation, more an exchange of concepts. He wasn't the most emotionally honest of people, or approachable. His own joviality was as much for the boys to keep them grounded as himself.

So being so exposed was alien. And _wrong_.

The human contact, strangely, helped. Her face, wracked with concern. Well, as much as she deigned to express. But he could _feel_ it and thus could suddenly note the tiny expressions - the tightness around the eyes, the faint crease in the forehead. And there was…

_Guilt?_

She felt bad? Responsible? She had suggested, practically _told_ him to do this, despite being a soldier to his Sergeant.

"What is happening, Sergeant?"

That was Zhaojie. He was stood across the room of what they were calling "the bridge". There was a central room to the vessel but it felt more like a passenger cabin, or suite, despite its lack of any form of furnishing. This room at the fore was clearly some sort of command area, as indicated by their surprisingly helpful Hybrid. It was he who had steered the compliant Insectoid things to positions in front of consoles that, to the rest of the team, appeared blank.

But to Hackett it was a riot of colours, coruscating into an almost blinding display as soon as the squat little horrors had stepped in front of the terminals.

Except it wasn't light in his eyes. He'd squinted but the glare stayed. It permeated his _mind_. Information flowing into him, both from the screens _and_ from the squirrely bastards they'd hooked up.

He'd thrown up rather violently.

So, they'd re-attached the crowns to the creatures, led Hackett outside and given him a brew. Then Zhaojie had begun making plans for finding a boat.

To which Hackett had replied _"Fuck that for a game of bloody soldiers, you bastard._"

So, now, three hours later, he was swaying on his feet. But he'd gotten some of the gist of things. All the troops were on board, seeing as he'd managed to get the little grey shits to listen and float the craft up thirty feet, then set it back down. Turned out he didn't need to fly it _himself_. Just give the grey aliens generic orders. It could be specific, yes, but that was… unpredictable. The things reacted to unconscious thought. Which was why the roof was missing from a nearby building - an errant thought of shooting an alien had trigger a weapon to fire, blasting the stonework apart.

That had caused a _bit_ of a ruckus.

But now he'd made sure everyone was aboard. He turned his face to Zhaojie, "Teething problems. Need to focus, Zhang. These things are co-operating…. But only just. I slip and I think they'll try something nasty."

The Hybrid nodded, then croaked out a word, "Grey ones. Sadists."

Zhaojie frowned at the pair of them. "They made them into cruel creatures and then let them guide their vehicles?"

The hybrid shook his head, "Always… cruel. But…. malleable. Pliant. _Evil_."

Zhaojie shuddered and Hackett could feel his gorge rise again. Even the thoughts of the creatures, such as they were, had unpleasant undertones. Like shades of colour, or a smell just on the edge of your senses. They weren't memories, really. More like the echo of memories. Flashes that conveyed emotion. Like remembering the _idea_ of a summers day. Except these were twinged with senses of pain, torment. Hideous _satisfaction._

He steeled himself and rolled his shoulders, "Due respect sir, let's get a move on and we'll let the Doc have at this. Before I lose what little lunch I have left."

Zhang eyed him for a moment then nodded, giving Jiayi a glance. At the rear, Corporal Essex chewed his lip, "We're all loaded, everything we could grab that didn't look torched."

Hackett had walked through the communication structure with the hybrid and, between the pair of them, had selected what looked like semi functional machines, which the lad had then ripped out and piled into the ship. That had been when he was "taking a break" from trying to steer a ship using the mushy grey bits of a pair of horrible little monsters.

He took a breath and closed his eyes. He wasn't certain whether it was necessary but right now it helped. Jiayi's hand was still on his shoulder, strangely. But it helped.

_Up_.

The ship lurched again and the surprised shouts from the back echoed through as soldiers crowded around the shielded entrances.

_Maps?_

An image appeared. It took him a moment to register it as a map of the entire _globe_. The Hybrid had not had much to offer here, having only briefly travelled on these ships, but his connection to their strange psychic mailing structure allowed him vague insight. They would understand his intent, but he had to understand an element of _how_ the things worked. And that had involved asking the horrors for an explanation.

Which they had dumped straight into his brain. Which had resulted in a second round of vomiting and loss of motor control in his legs.

But now he got an element of it.

_Rise to navigation…. Altitude. Set course for… Urban Site - PRIMARY._

What he'd actually thought was "Go up til we're safe then get us to London." but there seemed to be some sort of parsing going on, automating the translation. He wasn't sure _where_ that was happening. Maybe the creatures just took his meaning and overlaid their own references? It was all a bit beyond him.

The craft lurched again and the shouts became more intense. In his mind's eye he saw the city below grow smaller as they rose. And they kept going. Impossibly high. Now there were clouds. The horizon was vast, the sky shifting from blue to near black now. Pinpricks dotted it and he realised they were far above, now on the cusp. He wavered and felt a gentle probe from one of the horrors. He slapped it down mentally and felt his legs tremble.

Arms gripped him under his armpits, holding him steady. A gruff sigh escaped his lips, a huffed _thanks_. He couldn't talk, not properly.

Then the craft shuddered again and the ground below flashed by. There was a brief sense of weightlessness as the vessel began to descend. London was just _there_. He had no real sense of time - it'd been fast, but perhaps not as quick as he'd thought. Still, people were swearing, shouting, in the back of the ship.

For a moment he just stared, seeing London in a way no human had _ever_ before.

Then he looked again.

"Oh bollocks… Zhaojie!"

* * *

The thing about London isn't that it's a centre of commerce, of culture, of the monied class. It isn't that it has fantastic settings like the Mall, or Trafalgar Square; nor is it the proliferation of Wren Churches, or St Pauls Cathedral. No the _thing_ about London, the real thing is that, when you get down to it, is that it's a real rats nest of a city.

Alleyways, side streets, narrow roads, bridges and tunnels, looming buildings and pervading smoke from factories. Even now, with things grinding to a halt, the back streets are a mess of litter, obstacles and dark corners. Any sensible army would keep to main boulevards and streets when invading.

But then you get into the real _problem_ of urban warfare - every building is a bunker, a firepoint. Then it becomes a slog.

So the aliens pushed forwards, every single fighting machine thundering across the city, bearing towards where one of _their_ weapons had fired.

Except they stalled as rockets shrieked from rooftops, or from adjacent windows. A pair of machines wailed as metal screeched and split under assault, collapsing into buildings, where they jammed, unable to right themselves.

Others had to bunker down, trying to orient to fire their salvo of Black Smoke rockets. Except entire buildings erupted with scattered fire from pistols, shotguns and rifles. Bottles of spirits were lobbed from above, spreading burning fluid across the machines hulls. Barrels of gunpowder rolled into the streets and exploded, blasting the legs of the walkers out from under them.

A sensible commander would mitigate the threat to armour via careful deployment of infantry. And to the alien's credit they tried. Except having your swarms of soldiers dashing down alleyways after shadowy assailants often ended up with them bottled up in narrow quarters, with people above on balconies or leaning from windows ready to unload firebombs or bullets on the now-vulnerable invaders.

Plasma weapons were deadly, but only if they hit. And Hybrids went down to pistol rounds just as easily as people. Mutons burned with enough distilled alcohol poured onto them from on high. Cryssalids suffered without room to take advantage of their numbers.

But still they came, the weight of numbers allowing a hefty bulk of the forces through. The aliens were bogged down across the city, fighting indiscriminately - it seemed their assault had fractured slightly, now becoming about doing as much damage as possible to their immediate area, whilst a forced prong scythed across the city towards the Tower.

Anderson walked the walls, shouting commands, rallying the men. Gunfire crackled as attackers took pot shots from the covered of the burned out buildings. High above, the battleship was withdrawing from the theatre of operations, trailing smoke and fire from the wound in its side. Not a mortal blow, but they weren't risking it. Which indicated, perhaps, the aliens own limited arsenal.

A pall hung over London, the dust from the impact of the abductor cargo vessel, which was still burning in the distance. Even with the battle around them, the raging battles across London could be heard as men and women fought and died, holding back the invaders. There were retreating combatants falling back to the areas around the tower, forming another line beyond the walls. The risk of infiltration was there, so taking stock would have to wait until after they survived.

If they survived.

"Commander! We got five Walkers eight hundred yards out, crab walking our way, north north west!"

Anderson looked down at Bradford who was shouting up at him, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Roger! Get the artillery to re-zero, prep Shen's pop gun on top of the keep. Any word from the crazy bastard?"

"No sir! Not been able to get troops to the ship, it's gone quiet."

Anderson cursed. He hoped that the crew of the ship had fared better than those outside. And that Shen wasn't among the casualties. That would be one hell of a blow.

He heard a crash from a few streets away, followed by a rising column of dust. One of the machines closest began to rise through the smoke, breaking cover. He could hear the high pitched whine of its main gun charging.

There was a whistle and white smoke exploded all around the machine, blinding it as the phosphorus shells burst. That would buy them some time.

"Mortar teams, zero in! Don't let the bastard fire!"

More "thunks" and explosions peppered the cloud. It was far off, a good five streets away. There came the _**Uuuulllaaalllaaa**_ wail, mournful this time, followed by some more "crump crump" sounds. Flashes blossomed in the smoke cloud, followed by a deafening _boom_ as something inside the walker cooked off and overheated. He heard the machine tumble and crash to the ground.

"Well done lads! Prepare for an infantry wave. They'll try to keep us occupied, buy the rest of their heavies time to get into position. Mortars…"

"Low on shells sir!" came the response. Anderson cursed. They'd have to hope the distant artillery still had surplus. Or some rockets spare. He heard Bradford shouting again and turned back.

"Commander! We're lost five more batteries, aerial strikes from their disc craft, as well as more mini-discs pinpointing our outer guards. South bank under siege. We've got another ten walkers further out. And reports from the outer markers that the alien troops from Horsell are advancing. We've got them pinned with the boundary protections but some will get through!"

It just got better and better.

"Any _good_ news, Major?"

"We're killing them faster than they can reinforce…. For now."

"I'll take it. Right lads! Reload, get what explosives you can. Check your weapons. Sergeants, carry on."

He turned, watching the frightened, filthy faces of the soldiers around him, skin blemished by powder burns and smoke residue. White eyes in masks of grime. Men and women, the latter looking so out of place. But so necessary. No time for pretensions of normality here.

He strode from the wall, patting shoulders, offering words of encouragement. He knew he didn't look like an officer "should". His uniform was torn, his own face marred by bruises and dirt. Bradford met him at the base of the stairs and shook his head.

"We're holding but they're pushing back. Gonna be corpses enough to build a wall at this rate. Got refugees heading to the docks to the East. Some reason the aliens haven't flanked too far south of London and come up north."

"They're trying to funnel us. And they made us spread ourselves thin, then punched past our defences. They put everything on that… air drop. This feels like a do-or-die assault."

"You think?"

"Well, I think they meant it to be a killing strike. And now they're committed. Except we've made it into a meat grinder for them. As I said. Let's make the bastard bleed."

They walked across the grass of the keep, troopers ferrying the few ammunition crates they had left to the walls. A couple of corporals were inventorying the remaining mortar shells whilst a work detail hauled the corpses of flying aliens, cryssalids and snake-men into piles, ready to be disposed of. Bradford shook his head, "Damn. This war ain't like anything I've ever seen."

"And let us hope we never see its like again after it's over."

A signaller jogged out of the keep and descended the wooden stairway to meet them, "Sirs, reports from the north. A couple of company strength units assaulting the alien advance northern flank. Looks like reservists and a few Regimental remnants."

Bradford and Anderson exchanged glances, "Who are they?"

"Observers say its a mixed force."

Anderson nodded slowly, "Could be Marter. He's a sensible chap. He's have withdrawn once Westminster was compromised, taken the troops. And if he'd avoided a trap like the one Smytheson tried with us…"

"Unless that thing we killed _was_ Marter?"

Anderson shook his head, "No, that thing was a puppet. I'm sure of it. Regardless, this gives us a bit of breathing room. That gun ready?"

Bradford nodded, "But don't know how effective. Shen said it needs to charge. And we may not get many shots out of it. Or the one south of the river. Especially if we get Tripods breaching the Hays Wharf."

"We need to keep them away from the Ironclad if we can. They may try to focus on it, which will give us a better chance to take them out."

As if on cue, the gun atop the keep fired. The noise was more a vibration than a sounds, followed by a static feeling in the air and a strange tang on the teeth. Blue light flashed and a distant explosions sounded. There was a cheer from the walls and Anderson's grin was feral. Bradford snorted, "Sounds like another walker down."

"Let's hope they stay cautious. Means we can hopefully…"

Gunfire began along the walls - the wave of infantry had apparently arrived. Green bolts sailed above the keep, thick and fast. The two officers hurried inside. There was an explosion behind them and they turned only to stare.

A shell had landed inside the keep and had begun to pump out an oily black smoke.

"Steam! Steam now! Get water hoses on that thing! Masks, everyone! MASKS!" bellowed Anderson.

Clearly the gloves were off.


	43. Chapter 41

Working the intelligence desk in the naval yard was boring but necessary. It wasn't much different from the editors desk back at the paper. Dull, but at least he felt he was helping, in some small way. He had a rifle nearby, just in case the call came to defend the base but… the thought of going out against the foe still send chills up his spine.

A squeak caused him to raise his head and he smiled as two women entered the cramped office, one in a wheelchair. Other clerks and intelligence staff glanced up briefly, exchanging nods, before returning to work.

"George, latest dispatches. Something's happening in London. No more messages coming through,"

George placed his pen on the writing desk, then took the proffered papers from Beth. He glanced at his wife and smiled, "Thank you. That is… troubling. But there's a lot to sift through, all these anecdotal reports. I swear my brain will leak out of my ears at this rate!"

Beth nodded, then frowned, "Any word on… the North?"

George smiled sadly. They'd heard about the… excursion to the north. And their mutual friend along with it, "No news I'm afraid. But we must pray, Beth. And hope. Nathanial was lost. But David, David's a tough bugger. He'll come back."

The woman nodded, her head drooping, hair cascading to hide her face. He sighed and glanced up at Carrie who returned a sad smile, "Well, good news was that the doctors feel she may regain some function soon, there's feeling back in her legs at least."

Beth straightened, a slightly forced smile on her face, "Can't move them. But can feel them. Not sure if that's better but, God willing, it will happen. These things are sent to try us."

George managed to keep his smile on, not wishing to comment on the nature of a deity that allowed all _this_ to happen.

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden foghorn wail. The base's siren.

As one the people in the office scramble about, sealing papers away and rushing for the weapons propped against the wall. In the current situation it'd been deemed that it wasn't exactly wise to keep everything in the armoury.

Carrie wheeled Beth behind them and paused as George drew up short in the lobby of the Naval headquarters. The floor here was tiled, with a wide staircase up one side leading to a mezzanine. Above, a Commodore leaned over the banister, shouting orders at the scurrying troops and assorted officers. He saw George and the women and nodded, "Civilians to the shelters. Mr Wells, join your fellow auxiliaries."

"What's happening, Mr Nate?2 asked Carrie, her voice nervous.

The Commodore's smile was tight, "A minor incursion, we're sure. Walkers are probing the outer markers. But we've had a telegraphed report of some sort of aerial vehicles moving in the area. Nothing to panic about, just get yourselves safe ladies."

George turned and kissed Carrie briefly, then reached down to grasp Beth's hand, "Get to the shelters, find a weapon if you can. Carrie, still got that pistol?"

"Of course, not taking any more silly chances, darling."

"Good. Now, don't dilly dally. I'll see you soon. I'm sure it's nothing."

He watched the girls go, heading off towards the back of the lobby, to the rear of the building, where the shelters were. It was a token gesture, he knew. If whatever those things were got past the troops, the navy… well, a steel door and a few pistols wouldn't stop them.

He steeled himself, pushing the fear away. He felt his hands tremble as he gripped the heavy wooden stock of the rifle, aware of the polished grain beneath his fingers. Taking a breath, he stepped out of the double doors onto the open parade square. One way led to the docks and sheds, the other to the main gate. Other soldiers and auxiliaries were heading to the entrance. He jogged to join them, noting a mix of men in uniform and others attired in civilian clothing. All wore satchels and belts stashed with more ammunition, much like the one he had. Personal security was a watchword in the base.

The siren was wailing but he could hear explosions and screams, coming from the town. A sergeant bellowed a command and the jogging troops formed up. A grizzled man, a Royal Marine by the cut of his uniform, strode in front of the ragged ranks, "Alright, you 'orrible shower! Normal I'd have a proper Platoon of Royals for this, but instead I gots you lot. So, don't let me down. We've been over the drills and this is serious. We got bloody walkers coming in, but those aren't our problem. Our problem is them wankers in the city. We gots rioting and fighting. Our job is to quell that. So, no shooting the lilly livered bloody civvies - because you ain't civvies any more, is you?!"

"_No sergeant_," chorused the men in practiced monotone.

"Lovely jubbly. My lovely lads, we're going to have a ball. Find them buggers out there, who is making a menace for our people. And we give them a harsh bloody _kicking_, you understand."

"_YES! Sergeant."_

"Right, that's more _like it._ BY THE LEFT, Reee AIGHT TER _AN!_"

The Auxilliares turned as one, their feet stamping not _quite_ in time.

"By the ley-eft. Keee- WIK. Mar… chA!"

They tromped out of the camp heading towards the city. George noted a few other platoons forming up in the base, setting up defenses or running supplies. Clearly his bunch were on policing detail. Which begged the question: what the devil was going on?

* * *

Carrie and Beth headed from the HQ, across a small lawn, to where the reinforced shelters were. They were actually munitions storage, or had been, before the HQ had been relocated there. As such they were densely constructed and partially underground.

The rooms were crowded, beyond the barred doors, with non combat personnel huddling and waiting. Most of the occupants were women, but there were a few men there, some wounded, some not. The latter were getting confused and slightly hostile looks from the women. Carrie sighed inwardly - she was expecting one of the matronly sorts to start handing out white feathers any moment.

A pained groan from Beth drew her attention however. The woman was hunched over in her chair, hands clutching the side of her head, "Elizabeth? Are you ok?"

"It… hurts… why does it hurt?" whimpered the woman.

"What hurts, dear?"

"I can feel it… things. Out there. There are things coming, why do I know that?"

"It's the stress, dear. Look, I'll get you some water. I know you haven't been sleeping,"

Beth looked up, eyes rimmed with red as tears trickled, "I still see him. Dragged away. And he talks. He stills talks. Why?"

Around them a few of the others were frowning. One woman leaned forward, "She not right in the head, duck?"

"She's not going to be dangerous is she?" clamoured one particularly foppish looking gentleman. Oddly, that was helpful as every woman in the room turned disgusted expressions on him.

"Oh, yeah, 'cos that's us. Hysterics at the first sign of a naked bloody ankle," sneered one of the girls, a maid. Clearly danger trumped decorum. The man glowered.

"Mind your tone, young lady. If this woman cannot control herself, difficult as I know that can be…"

"Can I slap the prat?" piped up another woman, folding her arms and glaring at the man. She was a big lady, some sort of housekeeper by her stance, and dress, probably a head of the kitchens or some such on the base.

"Do you know.."

"Yeah, some big job in the Officer's mess right? Well, billy big balls, don't rightly care. If them big sods kick the door down, don't think they'll give a rats arse about you. Now pipe down. The girl's not in a good way."

A few of the others had crowded round and were giving Beth some water. Carrie shook her head and smiled, thankfully at the matronly lady, "She lost her husband getting here. She's been doing well, but… you know. It isn't easy."

The woman's expression softened, "I know love. Our Wilf… went up to Horsell, never came back. Still don't know."

The group settled and chatted idly. Time passed, slowly, what seemed hours but could have been shorter. Outside of the conversation no sound could really be heard beyond. And then the ground rumbled. Beth blinked and hissed.

"They're _here."_

* * *

It wasn't exactly as expected. The riots were around the refugee camps. Panic about the incoming aliens, that had been the assumption.

Ten foot tall clay monsters had _not_ been on anyone's agenda.

Explosions from the centre of town, near the Cathedral indicated that the problems were a lot worse than expected. The Sergeant was co-ordinating as best he could, men diving into cover around tents across the common in front of the pier. Gunfire from the fort behind them indicated that fighting had reached the old castle as well. Gunwharf quay was likely being assaulted by _something_.

The question was _how_. George wasn't in much of a position to render assistance, but it nagged at him. The aliens weren't exactly _subtle_. Did they have that many of those unnerving snake-eyed things? And what were those clay things?

All this rattled through his head as he saw the monster swat a man away like he was a toy. The auxiliary tumbled back awkwardly, slamming through a tent, before coming to a sudden, permanent rest. George growled and popped up from his cover behind a stack of barrels, firing at the things centre of mass. He pulled the lever under the rifle, ejecting the heavy shell, then fumbled another into the breach. It locked in and he fired again.

The creature staggered as multiple shots slugged into it. With a warbling groan it sagged, then toppled over. One down, twelve more to go. Or more.

The platoon was fighting on multiple fronts. They'd been marching through the camp, pushing refugees aside, redirecting them to secured portions, hearing them cry out about monsters, when the first of the clay things had appeared - a man melting like wax inside a tent, before he burst forth and charged right over a fleeing woman, crushing her into the soil.

Now, they were fighting and moving, fighting and moving. Part of the camp was on fire and smoke choked the late afternoon air.

Overhead, something hummed past, ridiculously fast. Around them, the tents flapped and loose papers, rags and dust swirled.

"What the 'ell?" bellowed the sergeant. Through the smoke, George spotted a large disc floating above the fort. Then a stream of green bolts blasted down, shredding the ancient edifice. Ammunition magazines exploded and the whole structure blossomed into a column of flame.

"FUCK!" George wasn't sure who shouted it, but he felt the sentiment as he watched the distant conflagration. The strange craft, spun then zoomed across the town, randomly firing down, blasting people and buildings with superheated plasma. The auxiliaries watched as the ship drifted, almost leisurely over the town, firing down. It was far away, a good thousand yards, but still visible. Sometimes it just seemed to dash across the space, moving a great distance in mere seconds.

The Sergeant roused them, "Quit lollygagging boys! Can't deal with it by admiring the bastard. Stand to, let's clear this lot, see what we can do."

Distant blasts indicated the navy were firing, most of the vessels out at sea taking aim at pre-set firing points. Likely as not the Walkers would at least be delayed. Perhaps that was why the ship was here? To distract the navy? Well it wasn't exactly doing a great job.

As if in answer, a second disc appear, descending from on high like an aberrant angel. It floated above the town, its size belying its grace - a good fifty feet wide at least.

Then it shot out to sea, bearing down on a distant frigate. George couldn't see much over the mass of tents, but through gaps that allowed them a view of the ocean he saw the military vessel suddenly turn as it was battered by green light.

"They're trying to destroy the navy?" muttered George.

"Wells! Move your arse. Unless you plan on swimming out there, let the wet-backs sort their own problems. Here and now, lad."

* * *

Captain Pickett stood on the bridge of the _Enterprise_, a relatively ageing Ironclad. It wasn't _quite_ an ironclad, more a jury rigged upgrade of a tall-ship, with steam-powered direct engine and a smoke stack that stuck up between the for and mid mast.. The cannon turrets were an upgrade, from 1868, to four 16 calibre 7 inch guns. Graded for armour, they'd proven effective against the enemy fighting machines.

Pickett was fond of the old girl; she'd been due for sale to some foreign navy as she was well past her prime. But the reality of their current situation meant that any able vessel was being kept in service. So far the southern coast was the safest area of England and a few vessels had plied further north, keeping the enemy from venturing too far from Britain's area of advantage - the sea.

"Captain, we're receiving a dispatch," that was the communications officer. Pickett turned and nodded.

"Go ahead,"

"Portsmouth is under attack, incoming fighting machines. Reports of… aircraft?"

Pickett adjusted his jacket and frowned, "Thank you Nathan. Helm, ahead full, adjust course bearing 325, Portsmouth. Signal _Repulse_ and _Lord Warden_ to adjust heading to match and follow on."

The vessel shifted, engine powering it through the waves. In its wake, two more ironclads, part of the patrol, matched and set.

In the distance, Pickett could see smoke on the horizon and he silently urged the vessel to go faster. He heard his XO enter the bridge and nodded to the man.

"Commander, we have a situation."

The man was tall, bearded and always seemed to have an arched eyebrow ready. This time he was serious, brow set in a frown, "An attack Captain?"

"Portsmouth. Apparently they have their flying machines."

"Plan sir?"

Pickett leaned his head back and clenched his teeth, "Every been on a pheasant shoot, Commander?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure, Captain."

"Of course not. Too much in the Dartmouth training classes these days. I do need to get you more acquainted with the decorum expected of officers, rather than your usual haunts."

"I dare say that a pleasurable evening with the available and eligible ladies of Dartmouth is hardly a poor use of my time."

Pickett quirked a faint smile, "Hardly. Well, Commander, how do you knock a bird down?"

The Commander frowned, "I don't follow sir."

"You don't aim to hit, you aim at the _area_ you want to hit…." The Captain mused, then turned as the navigation officer spoke up.

"Heading adjusted captain, we're five minutes out."

"Thank you, Mr Westly. Commander, let's head to the observation tower, see if we can't appraise things."

The tower was a raised platform above the bridge, affording a superior vantage point. The Captain peered through binoculars and frowned.

"Looks to be two craft. The fleet is pinned in the Solent, too close to effectively engage."

"I see sir, note it's using their inability to rotate turrets and find firing solutions. Damn, it's fast."

"I can count five ships aflame, two ironclads clearly in need of repair as well. It's ripping them apart," Pickett couldn't help but feel shocked and a little awed. The pair turned away and descended, a thoughtful look on the captains face.

"Commander, I want the batteries to cut fuses on the shells, set to… three seconds. Pass the message to _Repulse _and _Lord Warden_, Mr Nathan. They are to commence firing on our mark. Angle forward battery up forty degrees and increase as we approach Pass it along! Helm, ahead full."

The Commander nodded and pulled a speaking tube from the wall to communicate with the battery, whilst Mr Westley adjusted the wheel and speed lever. A bell rang and the ship lurched as it increased speed and Mr Nathan tapped out a message on the

"Batteries set, Captain."

Pickett watched through the forward window, frowning as the jinking, twitching vessel came into view.

"Mr Nathan, transmit I want a converged spread across a thirty degree arc to the front of our advance."

"Message relayed sir. Awaiting your mark."

The Captain waited, the burning ships and flitting silver craft, hovering impossibly ahead of them. It didn't appear to have seen them, too focused on sowing confusion amidst the Solent fleet. He tilted his chin and set his jaw.

"Engage."

* * *

There were more than just clay monsters. There were _humans_ fighting. Or what seemed to be humans.

Soldiers with blue shield emblems stitched to crude uniforms, accompanied by men in brown coats and welding goggles. They fought alongside those strange, besuited creatures. It seemed the tall-men were officers of sorts, directing these raiders to sow chaos.

His platoon had advanced from the common into a cobbled housing area, where the enemy were setting fire to buildings and targeting civilians. Corpses littered the street and his platoon had been trying to uproot an entrenched group of the enemy, the remnant of their initial force. Seven hostile creatures, holed up in what had probably been a family home. The thought made George's blood boil

"Right, you three, head round the side, cut 'em off. Can't leave this lot behind us if we're pulling back to the base. You four, firing line. George, take the rest, advance, flush them bastards out."

The group broke cover from behind the edge of a whitewashed home, the expanse of the common behind them, the narrow cobbled street ahead. Immediately, their fire support opened up, shattering windows and keeping the enemy pinned. He heard more gunshots from the rear as their flanking group pinned the buggers in.

Trembling,he and his fellows fumbled bayonets into place. He felt sick in his stomach, a roiling mess coupling with the rage. He was a journalist, a man of letters. He'd wanted to avoid war, expose the truths of mans folly, make changes with a stroke of a pen and changing the minds of his fellow man.

But these were not men; they were monsters. No truth could shift their conviction, no appeal to rationality, reason or decorum.

With a bellow, his group rounded the front of the squat cottage. A man booted the door in and staggered back, chest spurting with blood as yellow and green bolts stitched him. Another man pulled him back, futile as that was, whiles the rest fired blindly in through windows and the door. Too-human cries and shrieks came from within, and the firestorm wavered.

That gave them their opening. Inside they charge and the firefight became a melee. A goggled face loomed in front of him, but fell away as an auxiliary clubbed it aside with his rifle but. A red-haired man was fumbling with something attached to a crude bandoleer. He went down with a high pitched shriek as a bayonet sank into his gut. Another man felll face caved in by a point blank shot from a rifle. Another goggled mask, partly shattered to reveal an unnaturally large eye, fell away, streaming yellowed blood.

And then the sinuous form of a tall man was in front of George, the things jaw unhinged too far, its baleful eyes focused on him. It wielded something that looked like a syringe crossed with a knife and it lunged forwards.

He moved with instinct born of self preservation and ducked the thrust, pushing the butt of his rifle forwards. He heard a crack as it hit the creature's knee. The thing stumbled but stayed upright. Its movement was restricted but it didn't _look_ like its kneecap had shattered.

It came forward again, stabbing low. George pushed the rifle down, knocking the blow, then he pushed forwards staggering the creature into a wall. It scrabbled, trying to bring its blade up, when suddenly it wailed. A man had stepped up next to George and plunged his rifle forward, sinking the bayonet into the monsters gut. There was a loud _boom_ and George staggered backwards, white powder smoke clouding his vision. The creature slide down the wall, leaving a green smear against it, along with cracked plaster where the discharged round had torn through and into the wall.

George nodded at his companion and surveyed the scene, then staggered for the door, "All clear Sergeant!"

"Men coming out, hold fire! Reform lads, we've got to get back, reinforce the barracks."

The troop moved off, collecting the enemy weapons and trudging as fast as they could back home, muttering to each other about _humans _fighting them.

Above, one of the alien craft did another pass, heading out to see. They watched as it bore down on a hapless ironclad. So far, none of the naval vessels had done _anything_. They'd seen some try to get distance to bring weapons to bear, but the two aircraft harried them, forcing them to remain near the coast. Clearly trying to keep them occupied for the walkers… if they arrived. So far, nothing.

Suddenly the air around the craft was filled with explosion of black. Was it the dreaded black smoke? Was the craft deploying it?

The platoon stopped and stared. No, those were shells. Airbursting around the craft. It jinked, trying to clear itself, but the sky was suddenly full of explosions, unpredictable and mixed.

Something flashed and the disc listed to one side, descending in a lazy spiral. The second craft zoomed overhead, heading for the new interlopers, but found itself suddenly engulfed in similar straights. With one ship down, the rest of the fleet had been able to draw down on it over the city.

Above them, a shell exploded and George saw the shrapnel tear rip something off of the craft. Far over the sea, the first ship had smashed into the water. A pair of naval boats were powering forwards, to sink it or seize it, George wasn't sure.

The ship above them was wobbling, spinning. It wasn't crashing, but seemed to be trying to land. George noted its direction.

"It's headed for the base!"

As one, the platoon began to run.

* * *

Another crash shook the room, sending dust flying and people sprawling. The fop was whimpering, muttering something about "They're right on top of us!"

Carrie picked herself up off the floor and saw that Beth's chair had toppled over. The woman was sprawled nearby, clutching her head.

"Beth! Are you ok!" around them , women were crying or cursing, moving to help each other. Some had weapons, the wounded men hoisting rifles and levelling them at the door.

So when the ceiling exploded inward, it caught everyone by surprise. Brick dust rained down and rubble sent people cowering. Soldiers swarmed in, wearing brown coats and yelling in some strange language. Carrie scrambled back, fumbling for the pistol on her belt. A soldier turned his face towards her and she got a glimpse of eyes that were too large on a human face. Other soldiers were coming in, these ones more human looking. Herding people trying to grab the women.

Hostages?

The alien soldier saw her weapon and raised its rifle.

"Get away from her!"

The voice was Beth's. But it had a strange reverb to it. Like it was both spoken and _felt_. Purple light washed over the room and the soldier slammed away, blood exploding from him like he'd been pierced by a bolt.

Everyone froze. The aliens looking around in confusion, their human allies just frozen in shock. And then one of the wounded managed to get his act together and fired. The effect was immediate - an alien went down with a "Balat!" Another few gunshots felled more of the enemy.

The aliens tried to bring guns to bear, but seemed confused, panicky. The women charged with a roar, leaping from all around the room where they'd scattered. There was the clang of metal on meat as they brought whatever bits of masonry and abandoned pots they could lay their hands on in this disused shed.

It was fast, the tables having turned in an instant. Carrie looked around, dumbstruck, at the dead or concussed enemy. A few of the human foes were now pinned to the floor, their own weapons pushed hard against their temples by some very angry scullery maids.

With a start, she turned to check on Beth.

And stopped.

The woman wasn't on the floor.

She was… floating? Her toes trailed on the floor and her eyes glowed purple. She smiled, almost drunkenly, at Carrie.

"His gift. He wasn't supposed to. They hurt him. But I think I know. Some of it. His last gift. It may be part of their plan. All is in flux."

"...Beth. What… is…?" Carrie was dumbstruck. The supposedly injured woman nodded and gestured up.

"The work isn't done. George will need help. There are more, in the ship," the woman descended, the purple glow fading slightly. She wobbled on her legs a little, but stayed standing, "I can feel them, Carrie. There's minds there, strong minds. And strong forms. I can help."

Carrie only took a second before she straightened and nodded, then looked at the door. The creatures hadn't come through that way - too obvious. Hence the roof.

"Can we go out that way?"

Beth glanced at the door and smiled, "We can now. They won't see us."

Carrie nodded uncertainly and strode to the door. The foppish mess manager looked at them both, "You can't! They'll shoot you… and then they'll find us."

Beth looked at him and frowned, "They know we're here. Fear doesn't suit you. You can be brave…. Tell him, and maybe it will help."

The man blanched and Carrie looked between the two, confused. Beth turned away and unbolted the door, pushing it open.

Outside was a dust filled maelstrom. Part of the HQs roof was missing and, nearby, the cause was apparent. A disc like ship sat nearby, where the laws met the edge of the parade square at the corner of the HQ. The ship had come down hard at a steep angle, taking the roof and some of the wall with it.

A group of beings stood next to it - two of the tall men horrors, three mutons and a gaggle of six of the grey horror. Beth seemed to snarl when she saw them. Carrie was about to speak when Beth cocked her head and murmured something that Carrie only just caught.

"They're not devils… they're martians. One and the same, really."

The air thickened above the aliens. And suddenly a swirling mass of purple engulfed them. The creatures all cried out in shock as something swirled and tore at them. The six little grey things scattered, but only two escaped the maelstrom. One vanished around the edge of the building, the other headed straight for Carrie. She didn't hesitate. The pistol was in her hand and she cracked off two shots. The thing slumped and skidded to a halt at her feet.

Behind her she heard movement and turned to see a group emerging from the shattered shelter complex. The wounded soldiers, led by a few of the women from inside. They were carrying the alien weapons. Carrie looked them up and down.

"Are you confident in your ability to handle those?"

One girl grinned, "My dad was a poacher. Learned how a shotgun worked… can't be much different."

Carrie smirked, then nodded, "Let us get to it. Beth?"

Ahead of them, the strange maelstrom had subsided. The tall men were down, save one, who seemed to be near mortally wounded. The mutons were dazed but upright. Beth stared at one and it jerked, then turned to its companion and smashed its rifle over the other mutons head. The creatures bellowed and grappled.

The third turned their way, clearly sensing a greater danger. This one was different. It was red. Its fists encased in large gauntlets studded with blades. It beat its chest, bellowed, and charged.

Carrie stepped to the side and shouted, "Aim! Fire!"

The women weren't stupid. Scared, but not stupid. They went down on one knee and sighted. The fire was irregular, ill disciplined. But it staggered the beast, a good third of the shots from the purloined alien weapons hitting their mark. The thing stumbled, confused, trying to pick a target.

One of the mutons disengaged from the grapple and grabbed up a discard plasma rifle. It turned and fired, hot plasma splashing against the back of the beserker. The red beast howled and spun, charging back towards its comrades. Which meant the next burst of rounds sliced into its back. It howled again and turn, this time receiving th shots to its chest, neck and head. It stumbled, wavered, then collapsed.

The two remaining mutons were still fighting, until one grabbed the other in a chokehold and twist its opponents head, hard. It turned towards their motley group and took a step. Then it shuddered as a salvo of bullets hit. Hard. The thing toppled to one side as a platoon of soldiers jogged around the corner, rifles ready.

"Carrie!"

She smiled wanly as her husband moved over, dropping his rifle. His hands went up her arms as he looked her over, "Better late than never, dear," she admonished, gently. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.

George looked shocked, as a few of the lads behind him wolf whistled, "Um, well…"

"We're fine darling. Better than."

George seemed to just noticed Beth and he did a double take. In the distance came the sound of heavy guns - the naval ships opening up on something - likely the walkers. If they were still coming - it seemed unlikely now, now the fleet wasn't going to be distracted.

"Beth are you.. Ok?"

The woman turned to George and smiled, "I'm fine George. I think… I think I'm where I need to be."

And with that, she fainted.


	44. Chapter 42

London burned.

The city was lit orange across its western expanse as vast swaths of the city were consumed by fire and smoke. St Paul's dome was a shattered wreck, Westminster was a towering inferno with Elizabeth's tower a single column of flame.

Zhaojie leaned against the edge of the frame that, as his mind processed the scene below, he classified as both a door and a window. A section of the ship that was just covered in a bubble of strange, rainbow like energy. It reminded him of a soap bubble.

"What… is happening?"

Essex stood next to him, practically shaking.

"They're… just attacking everywhere. Is… is it all gone?"

Zhaojie steeled himself and turned to shout towards the 'bridge', "Hackett, take us lower."

There was no response, but the ship began to descend. As the ground loomed, they began to see that the fires were indiscriminate, but the smoke was worse, obscuring most of the city. Walkers moved, fired, moved again. AS they watched, one of the walkers stepped into the river. An explosion from the south bank announced concealed artillery and the Walker toppled back, slamming into a bridge, Waterloo by the look of it. The machine shuddered as another salvo struck it and the canopy exploded in flame. That got a cheer from the crew in the aircraft. Zhaojie peered down and noticed a grey shape half obscured by rising dust. Was that… a _crashed transport_? He could hardly credit it. There was so much going on below he could hardly take it all in.

More explosions were visible far to the west, the faint silhouettes of more Tripods. But these ones were in clear difficulty, barely moving. Zhaojie surveyed the river and focused towards the east, "Hackett, can you get us to the Tower?"

The craft lurched again and zoomed along the Thames, the passengers staring out the portholes to either side, surveying the destruction and watching the fighting. From here it seemed distant. The craft rattled as stray rounds sheared off it.

"Gotta keep… moving. Don't want our lads… shooting _us_," came Hackett's pained voice.

The ship closed in on the tower and Zhaojie heard Jiayi gasp next to him. The area around the fortress was littered with corpses, mostly alien. A few humans were still standing outside the walls, locked in close combat with a horde of creatures.

The keep itself was a mess - melted wreck of a cannon sat atop the main building, clearly melted. The nearby Ironclad looked in a similar state. In the streets around the building were signs that things were not going the alien's way however - five wrecked Tripods. Others seemed to be hunkering down, congregating, ready for a push. Zhaojie counted three of them and there seemed to be no easy counter.

The keep courtyard was… a charnel house. It was blanketed with black ash, several corpses slumped around it. A wall to the east was blasted open, a pile of rubble. It was a mess, with more bodies draped across the stonework.

A strangled cry echoed through the ship and Zhaojie whirled. The ship listed and shook. Below, some soldiers looked to be turning to bring weapons to bear, but the ship shifted fast until it hovered over one of the walkers stalking through side streets. The gangly tripod scuttled, too agile for its size to feel normal. There was a flash as something on their ship hummed to life. Below, the tripod became a cascade of green flame as plasma rained onto it. The machine fizzled, then exploded as the green, superheated bolts melted into the armour and set off some charge within the machine.

The ship moved again, Zhaojie shielding his eyes as something white hot lanced past their vessel. He gripped a wall as the craft jinked and dodged. Outside, he caught glimpsed as their ship strafed the ground, leaving a trail of green fire. He stared as another walker detonated under a hail of plasma, their ship taking a sudden shift again. A cry indicated that some of the troops on board had taken a rough tumble.

The ship jerked again and Zhaojie realised they were hovering in front of the main gates.

"Zhaojie…. Get out there…. Help," Hackett was shouting at them, his voice strained. The lieutenant was about to object but Jiayi held up a hand.

"I will stay. He needs help. In case… of an accident. Go, _Zhu_."

The bubble doors on the ship zipped open as if popped and Zhaojie saw they were only a few feet off the ground. He looked back inside and saw Essex rounding the team up, alongside Corporal Jacobs. He looked at the troops and grinned mirthlessly.

"What's the matter? Never charged headlong into the unknown from an otherworldly ship?"

Essex looked at him, then back at the troops, then grinned back, "Fuck it. Let's go kill some _proper foreign bastards._"

With a cheer, the troops piled out of the ship, charging into cover, or just bearing down on the _very_ confused combatants. Zhaojie roared a battle cry, hauled an obscenely large knife from his belt and, pistol in his other large hand, charged into the fray.

* * *

"Casualties?"

"We lost at least a third of the courtyard contingent, thirty lads. Boys on the walls managed to mask up but if there's been skin contact…" Bradford looked at Doctor Vahlen. She was pale but had a determined look.

"_Ja_. Skin contact is likely fatal, but exposure is not immediate. Concentration needs to be higher to incapacitate. Small exposure will spread over the subject, given time, unless treated with water and acid mix. We have time before the material fully cocoons a subject. Inhalation may be fatal if the individual does not exhibit… desired traits."

Anderson looked at the pair. They'd fallen back into the command room whilst the troops had sealed windows as best they could. A water pump had sprayed out water from the upper floors, whilst firebombs had been thrown from the battlements to try to clear the smoke. More canisters had rained down across the city, spreading more fear. He dared not consider the body count.

"We've killed three of their bloody walking gun platforms with the roof cannon… but engineers say is slagged. Artillery reports two more downed but they're out of shells and regrouping. But there's more closing… turret on the bridge is having difficulties charging. We'll have to try taking them out up close."

"That is suicide, surely?" Vahlen looked appalled. Bradford splayed his hands on the map table.

"We're low on options, Doc. We're cut off, got limited munitions. This attack…. It damn near stripped our assets. We're down to nearly throwing tin cans at them."

Anderson ran a hand through his hair and growled, "Not quite that bad. Mortars are salvageable at least. Wall teams have the lightning guns. We just need to hit them before they can get a good line and just incinerate the compound. Get me some teams together, get them over the wall. We need to push out before the next salvo. That breach on the east wall nearly killed us so we _need_ to buy breathing space by nullifying those big guns."

Bradford nodded but was interrupted by a cry of alarm from one of the communications officers, "Sir! They've got air support, closing down the Thames. It's… it's here."

The room fell silent as, beyond the walls, they could heard the thrum of alien engines. Anderson glared, "Get the gunners on it - why aren't they shoo-"

There was a sudden rattle as the windows shook, air being displaced at speed. Then a shriek of _**Uuuulllalllaaaa!**_ Followed by a cataclysmic explosion. Bradford, Anderson and Vahlen exchanged glances, before the American spoke slowly, "To the, uh, roof?"

The other two nodded and hurried to the stairs, clambering up until they reached the top floor of the vaulted keep. A ladder led to the roof, through a trapdoor now enlarged by brute force to accommodate cables and wiring. Bradford went up first, followed by Vahlen, then Anderson. He chuckled as he climbed, which got a cavalcade of German cursing from the Doctor. But she gave him an arched eyebrow and a small smile when he got onto the rooftop.

The view was… unexpected. A UFO that seemed possessed, jolting around the keep, practically hosing the ground with green energy. Two columns of smoke tinged with black dust showed where two of the enemy titans had been felled.

As they watched, the machine dropped down in front of the keep and disgorged a platoons worth of… humans. Who charged into the fray, taking the battle to the confused aliens. The sudden arrival had frozen the combatants, as if trying to work out what the new arrival meant. The charge shocked everyone, it seemed and a few of the aliens panicked and began to retreat.

Once the last man had exited the strange ship, it shot back into the air. Two titans were down, and the last appeared to be in something of a fighting retreat, trying to move and also angle itself to bring the heat ray to bear. But the thing wasn't designed to engage so agile a target. They watched as the machine tried to turn, the triple limbs unable to balance as the alien gunner focused too much on bringing the weapon to bear. The machine was near the river and, as it twisted, it toppled sideways, a lance of bright white light firing straight up into the clouds. The machine splashed into the Thames, sending waves rolling, along with a cloud of steam that obscured the fallen hulk.

Anderson stared, then looked at Bradford, "What. The hell?"

The American whistled softly, "Ain't got a clue, boss. Ain't got a clue."

* * *

The battle was actually a little anti-climactic. The sudden appearance of a UFO that then proceded to just strafe incoming reinforcements, coupled with the berserker like charge of the British soldiers caused a rout. Soon, every street for three hundred yards around the keep was confirmed clear of enemies.

Anderson watched as the main gate opened, revealing a bloodied Zhaojie, flanked by a good score or more haggard looking soldiers. Behind them, the external core of defenders, those who'd retreated back from various bastions nearby, were rounding up prisoners, both human and alien, policing and securing barricades.

Anderson watched as the large Chinaman strode forwards and chuckled as the fellow stamped to attention in front of him, presenting a crisp salute. He returned it, smartly.

"Lieutenant. This is an unexpected and _very_ welcome surprise. I imagine it's quite the tale."

"Sir, I hope to enlighten you in good order. I wish to report a successful operation in Newcastle. Casualties I will have to update you on, but did secure several civilian prisoners who are en route south via boat. We also neutralised an enemy stronghold and, as you can see, have secured various new… assets. Also, we have new information on the enemy disposition. And… this."

He produced the gleaming yellow crystal from a knapsack, unwrapping it carefully. Vahlen stared at it, then carefully stepped forwards, "_Entschuldigung… bitte?"_

Zhaojie handed it over, still partially wrapped and Vahlen took the crystal. Her eyes gleamed and she nodded slowly, then looked at Anderson, "Lieb- um… _Commander_. I need to get back to my laboratory. Can we… do something about that?"

Bradford snickered, earning him a side glare from the woman, but Anderson just smiled faintly and nodded, "We need to check on Shen, ensure the foundries and research areas are secured anyway. Zhaojie, get your people inside. Grab some food, water. We may need you to chip in soon, but take some down time for the moment. Where's… Hackett?"

Wordlessly, Zhaojie pointed up and the group glanced skyward, to where the UFO was slowly descending. The machine hovered, manoeuvering gently, then extended landing clamps and settled onto the ground to the north of the Keep. Bradford blinked as the ship disappeared out of sight, obscured by the buildings, "Uh… guess we should secure that?"

"Get on it…" murmured Anderson. Zhaojie coughed and gave an apologetic smile.

"Sir, please do not shoot the InSectoids on board. They need to be secured."

At that Vahlen stared at him and cocked her head to one side, "_Warum?_"

Zhaojie gave a slight shrug, "They are, apparently, integral to operating the more advanced devices of the _guaiwu_. And they in turn require… I believe a commander."

"You got one of their commanders to co-operate?"

"Yes and… no," Zhaojie beckoned and a figure stepped forwards, hunched slightly. Anderson's eyes widened and Bradford's hand went to his sidearm. Zhaojie held a hand up placatingly, "We have misunderstood a few things. This one helped us… but he is not the commander," Zhaojie seemed uncomfortable, then sighed, "Hackett is…."

That just got a few _very_ confused looks from the senior staff. Anderson exhaled, then frowned at the captive, "Part of me wants to hand your friend over to the good Doctor to interrogate… but we don't have the facilities to hand."

The creature interrupted, "Please… help. Speak."

Anderson glared at the creature and the Lieutenant tapped the back of his head, "Something in there is compelling him. A… device? He cannot remove it, not easily. He has promised to help if we can remove it. With due respect sir, I am inclined to believe him."

Anderson looked at the big man, mulling it over, then sighed, "You've done some amazing things today, Lieutenant. I think we owe you the benefit of the doubt. But he is _your_ responsibility for now. We can deal with it once we have secured our area of operation and ensured we are secure for now. Then we move onto the _hard_ work."

With another salute, he turned and headed back towards the Keep. Bradford paused, nodded at Zhaojie, then followed. Vahlen watched them go, then looked at the captive, a faint frown on her face, "Compelled?"

Zhaojie nodded, "Some, it seems… are slaves. Others are not. But many would appear to have no will, according to our friend here."

Her expression was faintly troubled for a moment, but it passed. She looked down at the crystal, then back at Zhaojie, "_Vielen danke_ Lieutenant. I wouldn't be surprised if a promotion was due… for all your people if I'm any judge of Will… the Commander."

It was Zhaojie's turn to arch a brow in faint confusion. Behind him Essex stifled a snort which he covered with a cough. The lieutenant smiled, "Thank you, Doctor. We just did our job."

Vahlen snorted, "As if it was any small thing. _Eine kleine…_ Modesty doesn't suit you, Lieutenant. Now, we must see to Shen and whether he has blown himself up yet."

* * *

Taking stock took time. A few hours to clear, to confirm reports that, with the bulk of their advance blunted, the aliens were hunkering down, entrenching into enclaves across the city. The remaining walkers were moving to positions where they could overwatch but were otherwise static. Likewise, their escorts were in disarray, choosing to secure positions and to delay the slowly rallying humans.

Bradford sighed as he surveyed the wreckage around the wharf - the fires had been hard here, but most of the stonework of the railway arches and the wharf itself were intact.

The workshops were a mixed bag - some were trashed, others a battleground of corpses; some completely beyond salvage whilst a large contingent were untouched. The maze like construction, the warren of corridors, shanty buildings in alleyways, converted houses: all of it had made the aliens infantry advance utterly stumble and crack. Outflanked, ambushed by the street-smart criminal gangs and furious troops, they cut a bloody toll on the aliens.

He'd been at the front of the troop Anderson had sent south a couple of hours ago, insisting on heading the search for Shen. There hadn't been much resistance - a few hybrids, the odd lone Muton, all pretty dazed or angry. THe Hybrids had mostly surrendered, the humans they encountered had tried to run, but given up.

So, now he had a temporary stockade of enemy combatants. Which included a _muton_. A muton that had… surrendered. He'd watched it and he noted it was looking towards the tower. To where the UFO had landed. Was that coincidence?

It was unnerving.

And now he had engineers trying to break open the mess that was the ironclad. Shen had been no where to be found and no one in the workshops knew where he was - they'd been too busy fighting for their lives.

The troop had skirted the wharf, but now they stood next to the pier that had been put together to accommodate the vast ship.

Bradford had had to stop himself throwing up - parboiled bodies littered the cargo yard and walkway next to the ship. Wooden crates had warped from where the water inside had been superheated. Stone work was clean, dry, having been steamed and then practically melted to near glass - the cobbles were all slick.

The bodies weren't really recognisable save by size. Most were curled up in foetal positions. Chilling was certainly the word. But they'd heard banging from the ship and he'd set men to get aboard. They'd found that the upper bridge was pretty much flash fried, just ash inside where the crew had been. If there had been any - he couldn't tell. The forward turrets were essentially jury rigged messes of technology - all now just melted slag. Body parts could be made out inside the warped wreckage - brave souls who'd done their duty. Bradford hoped someone knew who they'd been. But then again, the memorial would be a mile high at this rate.

All of the hatches to the main part of the vessel were warped, the metal part melted, near welded to the main structure along the upper structures. He watched two burly soldiers wrestle with pry bars and hammers, pulling the straining doorway apart. There was the sound of metal under pressure, then a heavy _clang_.

The air that hissed out was _hot_. Almost unbearably so and it carried the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh and sour sweat. Bradford was stood on the deck of the Ironclad, ten feet from the doorway, but the smell hit him straight away.

He watched for a moment as a crew man half staggered and half fell out. The man's skin was red and blistered and he looked delirious. The Major blinked then started barking orders, "Medics! I want you boys up here, lets get these guys out! Move move!"

It was a flurry of activity. Men piled into the cramped corridors of the ship, checking cabins and rooms. Bradford watched as slowly more crew were led or carried out. Some seemed in worse shape than others, but most looked to have burns or some form of heatstroke about them.

He felt his throat tighten as the count hit twenty then stopped. Men were still shouting inside, trying to get through the large ship, checking every deck. He heard muffled reports being passed up and the sergeant at the doorway tersely informed him of findings: clear room; corpses in the engine room; unconscious men being brought up.

The ship seemed to have been cleared and Bradford realised he'd have to investigate the corpses, to see if Shen was among them. Brave man. An idiot, but brave.

A cry came from within the ship, followed by cursing. Bradford turned back to the hatch, then grinned as a familiar face emerged.

Shen looked, surprisingly, fine. He was, however, soaked. And he looked _very_ annoyed. HE saw Bradford and his expression became hard to read.

"We won?"

Bradford gave a tilt of his head, "Sorta? We stopped them trying to kill us. Your boy Zhaojie pulled something outta the hat though."

Shen nodded, "Good."

Bradford blinked at the mans terseness. He gestured at the ship, "What happened?"

"We were getting it ready to test when the creatures decided to attack. I got the crew to splice together an emergency connection for firing, told the captain to aim at the biggest target, to get his men below, that I needed to fire it."

"Why you?" asked Bradford slowly.

"Because I designed it. Because I know how it works. If we had some inept _gwailo_ up there pulling the lever and it broke? What then? But instead I get dragged below decks. I told them the heat distribution could be dangerous…"

The engineer trailed off as he looked at the steaming corpses. His gaze tracked forward and he made out the wrecked, slagged mess of the turret. The small man walked along the gangway of the ship, approaching the remains of his work. He hissed, sounding almost in pain and hung his head.

Bradford leaned forwards and rested a hand on the old mans shoulder, "You alright?"

Shen turned to him, his face serene, but eyes wet, "It is never easy to watch your young die, Major. I have lost two sons and one daughter. I want to stop it from happening. But these boys… they didn't hesitate. And they pushed me into a bilge pump. We all tried to fit," he shook his head, "The water stopped the worst of it. And I was in the middle, so I got spared. These… fools thought me worth saving."

Bradford was at a loss. They stood in silence, looking at the melted mass. Eventually he spoke, "You're… important Shen. You may not like it… but your worth is…"

The old man rounded on him, "I have buried too many. I saw the idiocy of venal rank in Canton, among my peers. I look after my own. And I failed them and my new family today."

Bradford met the man's stare. His jaw moved slowly, then he gestured at the city, "Does it look like you failed? Your weapon bought us time. And your family? They looked after _you_. Two way street, Shen."

The engineer met his gaze, then broke contact to survey the broken city. He took in the smoke, the men all around being treated and carried to the field hospital; the bodies and the movement all around. He let out a shuddering sigh, "Is my daughter…?"

"Safe. In the workshops. We checked there first. Got about fifty angry Scotsmen keeping her safe."

"Good… good."

The man looked smaller now, bowed. Bradford went for broke, "Yeah. Say, Shen, I know you've got some samples of the walkers. How do you feel about more intact versions?" the engineer glanced at him, his expression slightly closer to the more calculating look that Bradford was expecting, "Oh… and we got something else too."

Shen arched an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Well… two things. How do you feel about… aircraft?"


	45. Chapter 43

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The light was so very very bright. His throat felt dry and, when he tried to speak, all that came out was a faint was a rustle of movement nearby and a cup was pressed to his lips. He drank, deeply then sagged back. It took him a moment to realise he was in a bed. Slowly, wetting his lips, he tried to speak again, but only managed a hoarse "Where…?"

"Infirmary in the tower, Sergeant," he recognised Jiayi's voice, quiet, faintly terse. He managed a cough and tried to open his eyes, squinting against the light.

"Wha… what happened?"

"You collapsed as soon as the ship landed. We had to carry you out after restraining the… grey ones."

"Uh huh… so, why y'here?" the question felt brusque, he realised, and he held up a hand to try to gesture. His arm felt heavy, almost numb. He could just about make out her silhouette in the brightness, "I mean… y'know?"

"You required help getting here. I assisted and volunteered to maintain watch. I will now update Zhu Zhang you are awake."

He saw her move across the room and managed another cough, "Ji...Jiayi," She froze, near what he thought was the door and seemed to half turn, "Th...thankee. Lot happened. But thanks."

She seemed to shift her weight then nodded - he could see her head bob, "And… thank you. For, well. The mind and flying… thing?"

He chuckled, which morphed into another cough and she moved back to the bedside, lifting the cup to his mouth again. He glugged it down and spluttered a little, "Ah, t'wernt nothing. Just… made some weird tiny grey monkeys fly a bloody spaceship…" he laughed again and he realised he was breathing heavily. He swallowed and gripped the bedside, staring at the ceiling, forcing his eyes to stay open. Jiayi swam into focus and her face bore a look of concern, which she masked as soon as he glanced at her.

"You are reacting poorly. I will fetch a doctor. And let Zhu Zhang know…"

He managed a nod and a twitchy smile, "Aye…. aye. Thanks again."

She gave him a curt nod and left the room, pausing at the door briefly. He sagged back into the pillows and groaned as his moment of peace was interrupted by a flurry of activity. Men in white coats, women in the peaked caps of nurses and others flooded the room. The men were firing questions at him whilst checking drips, the women pushing in a pair of carts of stacked medicines, clearly in case one of the three quacks checking him had an opinion. He batted away their prodding hands and just grunted at their questions as he struggled upright.

"Gentlemen, bitte. The man has merely awoken, he may not be… compos mentis as yet. Sergeant Major Hackett, wie gehts?"

A familiar woman strode into the room, clutching a clipboard in front of her. The doctors huffed and exchanged looks, but stood aside. The sergeant managed a grin, "Not bad doc. Bit of… bit of a fever and can't see very well."

She nodded and checked her clipboard, then looked at the doctors, "Dehydration, increased hormonal production, some potential strain on optic nerves via unknown stimuli. Matches the symptoms experienced by our other subject, ja?"

The men harrumphed and one shifted, clearing his throat, "Indeed, but she was hardly as...well equipped. I fear she was more a fluke and we can hardly expect, present company excuse, the fairer sex to be as resilient as a well drilled soldier."

Hackett frowned and looked at Vahlen, "Uh… what other subject? And um… have I been down long?"

The Doctor frowned at her compatriot, then turned to Hackett with a smile, "Two days, Sergeant. We thought it best to administer some mild sedatives and maintain a saline drip. You were rather deficient of salts and sugars after your… experience. There is someone else, who we had ferried here yesterday."

Hackett blinked, "Two days, Doc? I can't be just lying on my arse, doing bugger all!"

She frowned at him then, "Nonsense, Sergeant. The Commander has expressly stated that your team are on light duties. Recovery and assistance operations only. We have others on rotation. You will have more to do in the days ahead. Take the time."

He grunted and shifted uncomfortably in the bed, "Can I at least get some proper long johns rather than have me arse flapping in the breeze?"

"Gott in himmel, save me from stubborn soldiers. Nurse, please fetch the sergeant a uniform of some description. And a wheelchair. You will need to take it steady, Sergeant. Or you will answer to me. Alles Klar?"

"Uh.. yes Doc, um, Ma'am, Doctor Vahlen. Ma'am," her look could have frosted a beach in midsummer.

The medical staff filed out, Doctor Vahlen waiting until the last had departed, then she pursed her lips at Hackett, "Sergeant, it may be too soon to really discuss this, but I did want to say we may need your help going ahead soon."

He shifted on the bed, feeling muscles cramping and the rumble of his stomach; however he did manage to focus on the doctor's words. They brought a frown of his own, "Thought we were, doctor?"

"Beyond the simple trade of bombs and bullets, Sergeant. You have exhibited a talent… a skill. Something that we have been aware of, even managed to make some minor use of."

"The… weird carnival medium stuff?"

"We are referring to it as 'paramental' abilities. We had been using some individuals with basic skills to assist with the interactions with the aliens before now - interrogations, assessments. We have gleaned some useful information. But, unglücklicherweise, their skills have been at most passive. Reading, understanding."

"I don't follow?"

"They can basically understand the aliens, read their minds in the most basic way. None can really command them, not without substantial aids - such as the crowns we issue for captures. And even then nothing more complex than 'go here, do that'. You managed to command a group of aliens to fly a ship. We may have need of your services," here she held up a hand at his faintly panicked expression, "In terms of understanding the method. So we can replicate it."

"I tell you, doc, them buggers is horrible. You don't want to have people rooting around in their heads."

"Even if it gives us a fighting chance?"

Hackett sighed, "I suppose. You sound like Jiayi."

"Zhang's protege? Yes she is a very interesting young lady. Clever. As I say, we will need your help. I have no intention of recommending you become some sort of… driver for the vessels. But if we can understand the hows, the whys… we can perhaps develop the talent in others."

Hackett nodded slowly, "Let me… think about it. Anyway what about this other one? The lady?"

"Her talents were… markedly different. You'll meet soon enough. For now, rest. Geduld, patience. The nurse will be along to get you dressed. And I am sure William… the Commander I mean, yes, he will want to speak to you also. Good day Sergeant."

And with that, she left. Hackett sank back to the pillows and exhaled, taking in the spartan room, before his eyes fluttered shut, mind awash with images of blasted worlds and chortling, creeping, grey creatures, eyes filled with hate and avarice. Sleep was brief. And not restful.

* * *

"So, what's the damage, gentlemen?"

The command team had adjourned to a meeting room hastily prepared in the Officer's mess dining room of the Tower. Some of the buildings within the walls had collapsed under artillery fire, or burned out. But the mess was intact and, for now, relatively quiet.

Commander Anderson faced his staff: Bradford and Shen sat to one side of the table, whilst General Marter and the Spokesman sat on the opposite side of the table. A few attaches and junior officers were further along, or sat at the edges of the room, taking notes.

Bradford cleared his throat, "Still tallying casualties. Looks like we lost about two thirds of militia forces beyond two miles from us, either missing or dead. We haven't pushed beyond the crash-site yet, so we may find more holdouts. Here, fifty confirmed dead, seventy wounded on site, with an additional hundred more casualties south of the river. Minor wounds on pretty much everyone. The castle's secure, so're the docks and wharf. Civilian casualties," he sighed, "We got nothin'. We don't have a census on how many were in the city, so can't even begin. Can't even clear the bodies from the streets."

"Which raises another problem," interrupted Shen, "As those killed with Black smoke will get back up unless dealt with. Which will put further strain on our ability to salvage vital material and equipment."

"My own regiments are depleted, but hold the north of the city towards Islington, Haringay and Hampstead. So far, no major incursions, only stragglers," that was Marter. The real one this time. He'd arrived the day before, on horseback, with a retinue of soldiers from various regiments, as well as armed civilians, "I think we can act a reserve and perhaps at least fix any of these...Lost as your Lieutenant Zhang called them."

"Thank you General. Spokesman?"

"Well, Commander," drawled the masked man, "After the unfortunate incident with Smytheson, we are re-evaluating our own assets for… compromised infiltration. My sources tell me that the Prussians have pushed the enemy to a stalemate in many Principalities. Bismark is holding the line. France has mostly fallen, save Paris, Marseilles and the port of Calais. That is mostly due to the presence of British, French and German naval presence preventing the enemy actively utilising coastal regions," He spread out several dossiers in front of him and Anderson peered at them, "Europe we understand is under a complicated mix of pressures; the invaders have not assaulted evenly. In Italy, Spain and other regions they have apparently elected to perform hit and run strikes, stoking local resistances and… terror strikes. Those nations are currently falling to turmoil due to political instability rather than overt enemy incursion. Russia is also under pressure but holding mainly around St Petersburg, Moscow and Volgograd. They have suffered heavy losses to their military but, as across most of Europe, appear to have the enemy engaged in brutal combat in their own cities."

Anderson nodded slowly, "And the world beyond Europe?"

"Information is… scarce, Commander. Africa has no centralised communication network currently, no telegraph. Our last communiques were weeks ago. It seems the enemy have focused on ports and are able to more easily impact the populations there due to limited military capabilities. It is likely the continent is lost. South America, the Indian territories and Australia we have no information on."

Bradford coughed slightly and Anderson gave a weak smile, "And our American cousins?"

The Spokesman shook his head, "Rumours only. It was suggested that the American government surrendered to the invaders. However, there are indications of active resistance in many York we have heard was under attack, the enemy electing to firebomb the city. Boston and Washington DC… appear to also have been struck. The west coast, we do not know."

Anderson steepled his fingers and frowned, "Gentlemen, whilst this appears… unsettling, I do believe we have a glimmer of hope," the men looked at him quizzically, "I put it to you - the nature of this assault. The sheer level of commitment here. At the heart of the world's greatest empire. They threw so much at us… and did not follow through. What does that tell you?"

General Marter tilted his head, "A fear we had more in reserve? I understand you… shot down one of their warships?"

"More than that… we were on the ropes. And we scratched the thing. But… they withdrew. They failed to support their troops on the ground and actively charged our location."

Bradford nodded slowly, "Desperation?"

"And the fact they don't appear to have tried a similar assault elsewhere indicates to me they either refuse to overcommit or they simple cannot do so."

"That's a very large assumption, Colonel Anderson,"

"Indeed, General. But let's look at this; we know they struck hard and attempted to keep our military divided; they assaulted vulnerable sites; and they avoid overt contact with opponent forces they cannot easily counter. Now, that is standard doctrine… but they fundamentally failed to press their advantage and withdrew a key military asset at a core point of their engagement. They held the literal high ground, outmaching our own artillery and what? We could assume they are repositioning for a subsequent thrust… but reports from Lieutenant Zhang indicated that Newcastle appeared to be a main manufacturing base for them. We have neutralised it and, it appears, may have also caused them to commit to military action against us without them being completely aware of our capabilities."

The Spokesman leaned forwards, "An interesting proposition. It would explain why they have not been able to… co-ordinate similar strikes globally. The Council is… impressed by your resilience. And this information seems to be at least more positive than we expected."

Anderson mused then looked at Bradford, "And our new friend?"

"He would seem to have… provided us with confirmation of your suspicions."

The General looked puzzled, "What friend is this?"

"We have ourselves a defector. And, it would appear, a line in on the enemy's military infrastructure and command apparatus."

The Spokesman leaned back in surprise and Marter looked agog, "Goodness, go on!"

"So, as I mentioned, I believe their intent was a crippling strike to remove us. London and the United Kingdom are providing a central co-ordination spot and also have executed successful offensive strikes, seizing their equipment. I believe they genuinely thought they could take us. And they nearly did. If not for Lieutenant Zhang's timely intervention. But, either way, we bloodied them. And I feel they have committed both too widely and too heavily. They are spread across too many theatres and fatally underestimated their required assets to fully conquer us."

General Marter glanced down as an aide handed out a sheafs of reports and began to leaf through then. His bushy eyebrows rose as he skimmed the text, "You think they cannot prosecute another assault like the one we just weathered?"

"Not imminently. My best assumption would be that they will now perform as they did before, following their successful strikes - hunker down, consolidate, build up."

"Why is that?"

"The enemy appear to act along a series of patterns - assault, expand, defend, then assault again. They run more flexible operations in tandem, such as the 'XCOM' operatives and the Fenian separatists. Now, whilst they lost this engagement, the end result was markedly similar - we lost enough for us to be deemed not an immediate threat. We have had our greatest city ransacked, filled with the Chrysalids and Lost, as well as hundreds of abandoned enemy combatants. So, the enemy will likely move back to defensible areas. Reinforce. Then they will try again."

Shen nodded slowly, "It is the basis of warfare, but they take it to a clinical degree, yes. They attack weakness, undermine strength. That was Smythesons goal, yes? Disrupt the command structure here, to allow their forces an easier time across London?"

Anderson nodded, "Indeed. Without co-ordination, they could have easily sliced us to ribbons. Luckily, Smytheson was an idiot," that drew some chuckles and the strange tension in the room ebbed somewhat, "Before now, we had no idea of their dispositions, their command structure. So, we were on the defensive, building up against an attack we couldn't even comprehend. However, now we have a bit of an ace. In those reports you will see that the enemy has a few fundamental weaknesses. Most notably is its rather rigid command structure, beyond their auxiliary allies."

The general nodded slowly, "So, their commanders are a weak point. So what? Shoot an officer, the men panic..."

"Well sir, it's a bit more than that. Most of their soldiers are, in fact, incapable of much independent thought. Our own troops have more in the way of adaptability and indivdual action. This is not a universal constant but, apparently, their more veteran troops can grow to learn. But they predominantly rely on local commanders to issue a distinct series of actions."

"They're… puppets you say?"

"I think… well, Moira uses the word automata. She has heard a Russian word, Robota, which also could apply. Now, some of their forces, such as the Tall men and their most recent human hybrids… they are early enough in the… what was it called… iteration process that they preserve free action. Or rather have had it preserved. The Mutons have maintained a basic, thuggish mentality, so they can operate with other Mutons… but they do not do well without senior command guiding them."

The door creaked open and Vahlen entered, "Apologies Gentlemen, I was seeing to our latest.. Assets."

"Doctor Vahlen, please take a seat. We were just coming to that. I was explaining our opponents lack of flexibility."

"Jawohl," Moira slid into a chair at the far end of the table and folded her hands atop it, "We know that the Insectoids are… paramental. They are able to control and disrupt the thought processes of others. What we also believe is that they are akin to our radio relay stations. They boost signals from command elements elsewhere."

"So, they're… what, signallers?"

"After a fashion, ja. The Tall men are not 'paramental', but apparently have the ability to control forces in their immediate locality. They appear to still make use of Insectoids for large scale command and control. Our forces have reported both a more advanced appearing Insectoid, though only one has been reported; the one encountered by Major Bradford and Colonel Anderson at the start of this debacle."

Anderson shuddered at the memory, then picked up the thread, "And apparently they posses other creatures with this ability - the first monsters encountered at Horsell, great fleshy things in floating orbs. And some of their hybrids appear to possess what they call 'the gift'."

"Ja. Our informant states this is due to the… human material utilised in their construction."

Marter looked bewildered, "Their… construction?"

"Positiv. They are apparently grown in batches. Equipped, chipped and sent out."

"Chipped?"

"Entschuldigung - the Hybrids are recent enough additions to their military that they have that aforementioned independent thought process. The enemy apparently… place a device into their skulls, to ensure compliance and as a means of receiving these 'paramental' command instructions. We have a co-operative specimen and I successfully removed the chip last night. As a result, he has been most forthcoming with intelligence. We are still debriefing him."

Marter looked from Anderson, to Vahlen and then barked a laugh, "Knew you would get things bloody done. So, how does all this actually help us, what with the rebuild cycle you're waffling about, Bill?"

"Well… before now, we've done what they expected. Sent massed troops at well defended lines, or just tried to control our civilians. We've reacted. NEwcastle was our first large scale proactive assault and it completely bamboozled them. They had no counters, barely any effective defences against small scale incursion."

The Spokesman leaned forwards, "You want to try another strike?"

"Precisely. They're in recovery; they will either expect a full scale counter attack with our forces towards Horsell, or somewhere else. So, they'll be looking for massed troop movements, our forces in Wiltshire reforming and all that. They won't expect something more subtle…."

Eyes exchanged looks around the table and Anderson nodded at Bradford, "We have an alien aircraft. We think we can insert a team directly into their headquarters, strike at their command network directly… and disrupt their operations globally."

The table went silent, the only sound being pens scratching furiously as the aides tried to keep up. Marter broke the silence, "A strike from the air?"

"Yes. And, thanks to Doctor Vahlen, we should also know where to strike."

"Horsell, surely?"

"Perhaps not - that was their first landing and construction site. But the good doctor has a method to divine where we hit next."

Moira grinned across the table at Anderson, who smiled back, Bradford rolled his eyes for a moment and tapped the table. Vahlen glanced at him, flushing only slightly, "We believe, using the crystal shard, we can trace the signal source. At least on a local level. We know they came from Mars, but that target seems… ambitious. Local command must be a reality that we can disrupt. And we believe it may be that same creature the Commander encountered."

"When will we know?" mused the General.

"Very soon. Then we just need the appropriate preparations."

"Such as?"

Anderson sighed, "We've played the main distraction card. Our assault on Horsell did allow us to strike Newcastle, even in His Royal Highness hadn't taken over the bally thing… God rest his soul. But we think we can likely make it look like we're trying to rally another assault. That should fix their attention to allow our aircraft to infiltrate their main base… and for our team to capture their commander."

The Spokesperson stroked his mask, then looked at Marter who just shrugged, "Good a plan as any. And the Commander hasn't steered us wrong thus far, eh?"

"I concur. We may be able to provide additional support from continental assets. If we can disrupt the command network, I envision that we, the council, can take advantage of this new aviation technology to augment our ability to support."

Shen piped up, "Replicating the technology itself will be near impossible… but we can learn a lot from it. I should have some thoughts by the end of the week."

Anderson chuckled, "Just try not to melt Tower Bridge during testing, would you?"

Shen shrugged and grinned mischievously, "No promises, my good Commander. Let me know when your team is ready. I will have further equipment for them, I am sure."

Marter nodded at that, "When should we strike? Once you know?"

"We don't want to rush in. We need to prepare. Prior to now, the enemy has taken time, had it all their own way. Whilst we know they will likely stick to the plan, they will be more reactive. Let's not give them cause to strike out too soon. We'll manoeuvre troops in Wiltshire into defensible lines, keep the bulk of our troops in London on cleanup. Give the appearance of still reeling, caution. I'd give us a week at most, three days ideally… then we press our advantage."

Marter nodded, "Then, let's to our business shall we?"

The room devolved into discussion of minutiae for another hour, before breaking up into small clusters of officers, all who departed to their various actions. Soon, it was just Bradford, Shen, Moira and Anderson, with the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock.

Shen broke the silence, "So much so soon. Are you confident Hackett will do this?"

Vahlen pursed her lips, "If not Hackett… we need another. A week might not be enough time, Commander. Not if we have to train up another to use the vehicle…"

With a grunt, Bradford cracked his back and shook his head, "And we've got Ms Paramental Portsmouth as well. She stable?"

Vahlen shrugged, "After a fashion. Slips in and out of consciousness. Ein Bisschen rattled I believe. But she will recover. Good that the Naval authority decided to send her here…"

Anderson sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly, "We are on a timetable set by our enemies. If I was their CO I'd be chewing out the subordinate right now. You can be sure they won't leave us alone; they will strike again, albeit maybe not the same way. We cannot let our opponents set the terrain of engagement any further. We hit them where it hurts next, buy our allies and ourselves more breathing room."

Shen chuckled, "Well, you'll be pleased to know that our weaponry is becoming more refined. I believe we will be able to match our opponents firepower on a more even footing now. And be more resistant. Truly, the engineering on display is… astounding. Horrific. But astounding."

Silenced descended again and Anderson sat up, "So, everyone… if you'll excuse me, I feel I am overdue a nap. Let us reconvene tomorrow morning, six am?"

There were nods from all three and they dispersed. Anderson clomped to his room and practically fell onto the bed, one arm draped over his eyes. Two days of overseeing the bodies being stacked, seeing to troops and practically living off of milky tea and biscuits in the command room and the streets outside.

He heard the door click and froze, then moved his hand slowly away. He chuckled as he saw Moira leaning against the door, staring at him like a deer in a spotlight. Clearly she hadn't planned the next step.

"Something to discuss Doctor? Concerns about my…"

"I have decided I require sleep also," she muttered, "And I would rather not do so alone."

Anderson tried to maintain a suave grin but it was threatening to expand to "incredulous". He managed an "Oh?"

"Yes. I feel it will.. Help my concentration."

"What will society think…? Two unmarri-"

"So ein Misthaufen. Society can take a running jump, it has sneered at me for my whole life. And I will not have even your British sarcasm ruining…" her shoulders seemed to be nearly shaking. In a moment Anderson was up and across the room. Vahlen froze as he embraced her, then yelped as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He laid her onto the mattress and slid next to her, propping his head up on one hand. She glared up at his grinning face, but couldn't hold the expression. Gently, he took one of her hands and brought it to his lips.

"My apologies. My own.. Nerves get the better of me. Duty versus want. I think… I would do well with company. Liebschen."

She sighed and shook her head, "What am I to do with you, William?"

His grin became playful, "Are you open to peer review, Doctor?" then he laughed as she flushed, "Well, let's just enjoy the silence for the moment, I think we've earned it."

He lay back and felt her drape her leg over him, heard her breathing slow, his own eyes drifting shut. Soon, sleep had them both. Peace, for the first time in weeks.


	46. Chapter 44

The worst part of late summer was the rain. England normally had a fairly balmy August with a chillier September. But this year had been abnormally colder. Maybe the invaders with the prevalence of their black smoke, or the ash from burning cities? Or just some further curse from God sent to torment them?

Either way, it meant more in the way of chill winds and drizzling rain that turned the cobbles to slick pathways, the grass within the Keep to slurry. The air chilled, the fine rain more akin to mist that soaked all ones clothing and sapped the heat of the body.

Luckily, the duties of Lieutenant Zhu's company were light. Major Bradford had placed them on what most soldiers referred to as "block jobs"; light duties. That wasn't to say they weren't pulling their weight, but their rather gargantuan efforts had been rewarded with a few extra tots of beer from a salvaged keg, as well as minor tasks around the fort, whilst others were sent into the rubble and civilians dragooned in to help with cleaning up the myriad bits of equipment left behind by the failed assault.

Corporal Essex had no doubt they'd be pulled back to full duties soon, though; word was spreading about the dug in enclaves all over the city; of entrenched mutons, or resilient Fenians refusing to give up the fight. The past couple of days had already seen another wave of shadowy strikes by their enemy, the men of "Ex -Com". Less an army, more a rag tag of opportunistic rebels, fenians, anarchists and other disillusioned idiots who thought siding with the enemy was the way forward.

However, in the interim they were doing cleanup in and around the fort, gathering their strength. Some of the jobs were basic; sentry duty, quartermaster stores, that sort of thing. But David had volunteered for the grim task of policing the bodies of the fallen, hauling the dead soldiers to be lined up on the green moat that surrounded the castle; lugging the corpses of aliens to be either burned or sent to Vahlen's butchers shop south of the river.

His duties brought him near the parked air-vessel, which now swarmed with engineers and scientists of all stripes. A steamer had hauled into the Thames, carrying pieces of several other air-craft, shot down over Portsmouth. Rumour was, there was a mostly intact one being held there as well.

Add to that, whispers around camp of a new offensive being planned. There was a nervous anticipation around the city, what little of it was still populated; the new arrivals from the North, under General Marter were eager to get into the fray again; the men of the Tower just glad to have a reprieve. Essex wasn't sure what to think.

So, here he sat, arms draped across his knees, in the moat of the keep. Alongside were rows of covered bodies, barely covered by hastily erected tarpaulins. A couple of lads were carrying another few bodies in, having been retrieved from nearby rubble. Command would crate the bodies up and likely put them on ice, or decide where to bury them. If they could identify them, so much the better.

A few civilians moved along the line, lifting sheets to look beneath, trying to identify missing loved ones. David could hear the odd choked sob as a man or woman found something they'd prayed they wouldn't. A few of the bodies were small. Too small. He couldn't parse that, couldn't fit the reality into his head.

So, he sat, on top of a barrel, head pressed back against a stack of pallets as rain streamed down his face. His woolen uniform was soaked. His mind desperately empty.

He'd only seen Hackett a couple of times; the man had looked drawn, exhausted, even a couple of days since their return. The man had always been accompanied by an escort and one white-coat clad chaperone. David wasn't sure what to make of that. Jiayi was also not too far away. Except she was never _quite_ nearby. Just… within line of sight.

David chuckled to himself humorlessly - that girl needed to get her act together. He was bloody shite with copping off with women, but he could read body language pretty well.

That train of thought brought up another face and he snorted faintly. There was a pointless track to wander down. May as well be…

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The voice sliced through his reverie, faintly familiar. He frowned, annoyed and lazily turned his head to look to his left. And then nearly fell off the barrel.

She was wearing a white skirt and blouse, with a dark grey blazer over the hair was done into a long braid, gone from dark blonde to a sudden shock of silver streaks. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her face was quizzical, with an arched eyebrow. She saw his expression and grinned. David stammered.

"...Beth?"

She seemed to blush faintly, but her smile faltered a little, "Ah, you do remember me. I understand we have you to thank for… saving the day?"

He looked at her blankly and she gestured over towards the parked spacecraft, one edge barely visible on the rise to the north. He managed a faint smile, "Uh, well… more the Sergeant and the Lieutenant. I was just along for the japes," He rubbed the back of his neck and stood, noticing the soldier loitering about ten feet behind her. An escort? He frowned then looked back at Beth and started. Her eyes had a strange, purple iridescence to them. But it vanished. And there was something else that struck him. He blinked, "you're… uh you're walking?"

Her smile returned and she nodded, brushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear, "Ah you noticed. Ever observant. Yes, um… a few changes actually. Walk with me?"

David nodded dumbly and Elizabeth turned and began to walk back towards the riverfront. He paused, then jogged to catch up. The escort fell in behind them, keeping his distance, "So, um, what happened? I heard Portsmouth was… attacked again? Wasn't sure if I should… and how…?"

"George and Carrie are well. They're here as well. Came up with me. I woke up… yesterday."

"Woke up?"

"Oh yes. Rather troubling. I was rendered unconscious. A final gift from Nathanial, I fear," her voice hitched and she closed her eyes briefly. David shifted, not sure where to look as he heard her take a few deep breaths, "I fear… I fear that is done now."

He looked at her and saw Elizabeth had set her face into a firm expression. David stopped and gently laid a hand on her arm. She flinched, but then relaxed and turned to him. He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, "I'm… sorry. Really. I know we all hoped…"

She gave him a faint smile, "You didn't _really_ though, did you?"

The question cut him to the quick and he coloured, unsure if he should shout. He was mildly offended, embarrassed and ashamed. It was his turn to flinch as she reached out, her face a sudden mask of concern. He inhaled and met her gaze. Something told him to be… honest, "No, can't say I was. I'm sure…. He was a good man. But I've been in war long enough to not hold on to too much hope. And… well."

She nodded slowly, tilting her head to one side. A sad smile crept across her face, "I know. I knew then. I know more now."

He frowned, but something else puzzled him, "What did you mean… a gift?"

Elizabeth smiled and arched an eyebrow, "I… well… I'm not quite sure. The good Doctor I met yesterday explained I have manifest some sort of abilities. And George and Carrie tell me I did something rather fantastical. And I can also read minds."

She turned and continued walking. David blinked, "What? WHAT?"

He walked after her face a mask of consternation. She gave him a sideways glance and grinned impishly, "Oh not _quite_. I can feel things. Emotions. So, no can't tell what you're thinking _precisely_. But… I can…" she paused at the balustrade that looked out over the Thames. Across the water, the ruin of the Ironclad sat, surrounded now by floating scaffolding. Pontoons and barges clustered the water, also surrounding the remnants of the fallen fighting machine.

"But…" prompted David, mind a whirl.

"But… I can feel things. People. Some more than others. And I can do things in the world. I apparently… apparently killed a fair number of these monsters. It sent me under."

"And you think _Nathaniel_…?"

"I know. I've tried to explain to the Commander fellow, Anderson. I don't think he quite understands."

David shrugged and chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, "Uh, well… my Sergeant had some queer stuff happen up north. But he didn't pass out."

"The Doctor thinks my comatose nature was due to the ability being forced upon me… rather than a natural occurrence. I've met this Hackett - charming fellow."

David bristled slightly, a sudden surge of unreasonable jealousy rising in his belly. He blinked as he felt her hand find his and he looked down. When he looked back up he saw her staring at him, a faint, almost guilty smile on her face. Her lips trembled and her face became pensive. David let out a shuddering sigh, "Can't read minds, eh?"

Her smile became a little brighter and she swallowed, "I… felt you. Woke up and could sense all these _minds_. It was overwhelming. But the Doctor seemed to understand, at least a little. Your Sergeant, too. Even if he is also a bit bewildered. They'd been monitoring me since we arrived back by steamer. And, well, I realised I could recognise the minds, the shape of them. I do not know how. So… I decided to see if I was right."

He looked at her and nodded slowly, "So, just checking in? Testing a theory?" his voice felt strained and he had no idea why. Well, he could hazard a guess. She'd turned up, her husband was likely confirmed dead or gone. What was he hoping for? That she'd just suddenly go 'Oh you'll do now'?

Elizabeth turned and regarded him, facing him fully, his hand still clasped in hers. Her eyes, brown green, flashed purple again for a moment, "No. I wanted to see _you_. I… missed you. You were a rock. And I know Nathaniel is gone. That he wanted me to live. And I don't know where this war is going, what will happen. I wanted to know… how you'd see me. Whether this would…."

She trailed off, eyes searching his. Her free hand came up and she toyed with the buttons of her blouse. He frowned and turned his head away, bowing a held breath.

"Well… it's been crazy. Men with bug-eyes, lobster monsters, a factory making tripods. _Flying_. And now a missy who can read my mind…" he turned his gaze back to her and then flashed a grin, "I'll never be able to spin a yarn about not being in the pub, will I?"

She looked on the verge of tears, but saw his smile and sagged a little, her smile broadening. She even chuckled a little, then looked at the floor, "I know… I should feel guiltier but… I don't want to lose my days to grief any more. I want hope. A future. I don't know what that holds for me, what they want with me."

He took her other hand, "Well… I think maybe I should ask with you. These are strange days, in't they? But you're a lady of letters. I'm some grubby Corporal. This might be messy."

She looked him in the eye and arched an eyebrow, then looked around them, "I think we'd be fitting with the times, David."

He blushed, hearing her say his name. It felt… strange, "You aren't doing squirrely things to my poor noggin' are you? Mental powers and all that?"

"No more than any woman, I think. Do you want me to…?" her voice was a little husky and she suddenly flushed with embarrassment as well. He laughed.

"Buy me a drink first, luv. I'm a cheap evening if we're stepping out. But… well, I'm on light duties. I think I can get the boss to sort something. Let's…. Let's see."

She beamed, then stood on tip toes and planted a peck on his lips.

Wait, no. She wasn't on tip toes. She'd _floated_ up to do it. He blinked and saw the sudden worry on her face. He held her gaze and grinned, "Bugger me. Now _that_ could be a novelty and a half…."

* * *

Bradford eyed himself in the mirror. It'd been the third day with barely any sleep. Like the rest of the Command staff, he'd been having _dreams_. They'd been going for the past few days. The Commander, Vahlen and Shen had all shared similar experiences, although Anderson and Vahlen had not exactly been _relaxing_ if the scuttlebutt was true. And he knew it was.

Honestly he was pretty impressed; they needed some good news stories. And an office romance, well. Right now it couldn't hurt. And it gave things a bit of what his Westpoint instructors would have said a "mythic" quality; never underestimate an inspirational image.

But right now he was juggling poor sleep and sombre news. Part of his duties in the Command staff now included chaperoning and looking after the American enclave; remnants of the staff and their families who had operated the US embassy; as well as various merchants, off duty soldiers, visiting civilians who'd just been in the wrong place.

Of course it wasn't a full time role; but he was seen as the _de facto_ "leader" of the US contingent; even more so than the ambassador who was, truth be told, little more than a wreck now.

But it did mean he was responsible for a lot of the missives that were still getting through; old tramp steamers, or the undamaged telegraph cable that the invaders, somehow, had missed or ignored. He imagined that they were likely using it as a secondary communication method themselves, even though they possessed these strange, wireless communication systems. That or they hadn't the means to go underwater as easily.

What messages came through were bleak. The Spokesman had passed even more to the Commander and he to sift through. The USA seemed in the throes of another civil war of sorts. Except this time one side was being sponsored by an invader. Washington DC had fallen and was, apparently, being _rebuilt_ in the invaders image. The states were resisting, but the less developed ones, the moral rural areas… there was no contact. Fighting on the West coast was ongoing, though news from there was limited, scattered. Boston and New York were in various stages of burning, burned, surviving, resisting or utterly wiped off the map, depending on the source.

If the enemy had a foothold across the Atlantic, then that was troubling. It wasn't an immediate problem. The missives referred to the new order as some self proclaimed "Advent of a new order", which sounded all sorts of pompous to his Texan ears.

A knock at the door drew him from his reverie and, with a sigh, he spoke, "Come in,"

An equerry, some young Marine from Idaho, opened the door and peered in, "Uh, sir, the Limey's sent me to get you. Commander fellah says you need to talk to that prisoner?"

Another unpleasant task. Smytheson. Bradford nodded, "Alright, let's go," he shrugged on his long brown coat, over his grey tunic and navy blue dress trousers. It was a mish mash of uniforms, but he hadn't honestly felt much of a need to conform. The Commander wore his British Army uniform but now slightly altered with a more civilian cut. It made the man look less like some popinjay, more relaxed. But still stern.

As he walked, Bradford rubbed at his beard. He wondered about shaving it, but dismissed the idea. Razor blades were an ass to use and, frankly, it was an administrative task he didn't want to bother with, not with everything else blowing up.

He followed the American soldier from his quarters in the Mess to the main gate. Anderson stood there, flanked by a pair of heavy set guards, each carrying the new magazine fed rifles that Shen had pulled together with the armourers. They were pushing to roll out the new design to the EXALT troops first, then the wider Army. Faster rate of fire, still bolt action, but less wasted time reloading. He'd heard that the now-dead Prince had apparently opposed such designs, believing it encouraged "wasteful" use of ammunition by soldiers and allowed them to deviate from drills.

Well, fuck that. The lesson they were learning from this war was get as much explosive lead down the range as fast as damn possible The spindly bastards didn't like fast moving metal more than anyone else. And they certainly did not like it _en masse_. And with those rays, each man had to be able to put as much towards the enemy as a full line in the same time, else they'd get burned up from bunching up. So, this was a step in the right direction; though Shen was dreaming of giving everyone a Maxim gun, it seemed. The old Chinaman had seemed to be daydreaming as he'd tried to explain the concepts, surrounded by enthusiastic British and German engineers. They'd found a few of them in the Docklands, refugees from some sort of trade exhibition. The concept of rapid fire weaponry was, however, really intriguing.

That and the flying.

But first things first. Time to meet the monster.

Anderson nodded as Bradford joined him and the pair wordlessly crossed Tower bridge, making the fifteen minute walk to where they had set up a secure stockade, adjacent to Vahlen's research laboratory. They were silent as they entered the warehouse that had been gutted to make room for the various reinforced pens and lead-lined cells. The air was a cacophony of shrieks and warbles from the captive aliens; moans and whimpers from injured and imprisoned human traitors; and the hiss of Tall men as they strained against their bindings.

The mutons and other more aggressive specimens were hobbled, held sedated, but they still gurgled and grunted in protest.

A warehouse a street over held the strange Hybrids who were being processed separately; their apparent enslavement meant they were being treated a little differently. Each one assessed and treated to remove the strange control devices, then tested again. Hackett had been working overtime running tests with their new loyalist alien friend. Anderson had vouchsafed to Bradford that he wasn't yet convinced, but would give the strange beings a chance; Bradford had responded he didn't understand _why_. And that was when Anderson had fixed him with a steely look and asked him if he wanted to be like the invaders.

"We are better. We have to be. The folly of Empire cannot continue; you suggest we cull those we have? We skirt the line between discovery and butchery already. No, if there is a chance we can subvert the enemy, bolster our forces? Let us try. And if it fails, then we cut it loose. But caution has been our near undoing here. Overt arrogance the handmaiden to disaster also. So, let us tread carefully but be bold in doing so. Try a different approach, Bradford. Hope. Hope that we can find something out of this horror."

Bradford liked Anderson, even if the man did go on at times. The fellow seemed to be really getting into the whole "inspirational speech" thing. But then again, he hoped the guy wasn't growing an ego too large.

They descended through the warehouse into a basement. This had been converted into more cells; but these ones had electrical wiring, lamps and strange machines hooked up. Half the staff here wore white coats or were technicians; the remainder were guards. Everyone wore silver headbands and a pair were handed to Bradford and Anderson as they entered.

A Doctor stepped up, greying hair and horn rimmed spectacles. He gave a curt smile and nodded at the officers, launching straight into a briefing, "The subject is in the last cell on the right. We've run some preliminaries over the past few days. We haven't been able to get too much out of him yet."

"Anything notable?" murmured Anderson.

"He seems in a state of shock. Alternates between rambling, crying and cursing. He's tried bribery, threats and begging. I can say that he seems genuinely afraid of _something_ though. And it isn't us."

"Hmm. Well, we'll be brief. Want to see if he'll respond to us… before I let Moira have a go."

The Doctor frowned and clucked his tongue, "I cannot say I approve…. He is still a man, a subject of…"

"He is a traitor, a prisoner of war and a murderer. I too would rather haul him up in front of a judge but… we are in terrible times. I want to hold to our morality Doctor; I know we need to. But we also need answers."

The Doctor pursed his lips and nodded, then stepped aside. The pair proceeded down the dank corridor, stepping over cabling, ignoring the skittering and hissing from several other cells until they reached the one at the end.

A guard pushed the door pen and they stepped inside. Smytheson sat on a simple spring bed at the far end of the cell. A single light, framed in a metal cage, hung from the ceiling. Copper wires ran around the cell perimeter and there was a metal taste in the air.

The prisoner looked up and tried a sneer. But the wobble of his lip belied his expression. Anderson looked around the sparse room, but remained silent. Bradford stepped around the Commander and smiled grimly.

"Mr Smytheson, quite the predicament. A failed career, failed business, a failed coup. You're just ratcheting this shit up, aintcha?"

The former businessman straightened and took on a haughty air, trying to stare down his nose at Bradford, "Ah, the monkey. I'll speak to the organ grinder, you insufferable yank,"

"Nah, you just have to listen to me. Boss man is here to watch you squirm. He doesn't trust himself to not gut you. But he also wants to make sure I don't either... "

Smytheson frowned, "What..?"

"Yeah, we were thinking maybe we come here, rough you up, get some payback. Been a hellish stressful few days. Hell, I suggested we offer you out as a punching bag, a shilling a go. Plenty of the men want to have five minutes alone with you."

The businessman paled and Anderson turned his back, hiding a faint smirk. Bradford went on, "Course… Commander says that ain't all Gentlemanly. Thinks we should just hang you quietly down here. Or just let a Corporal shoot you, make it clean, quick. Some basement, in the dark, bam, nice and done."

"No! No you need me!"

Bradford shot a look at Anderson and frowned, "Do we boss?"

Anderson turned then, setting his face in a frown, "Why, Smytheson? You're clearly not the mastermind. You're not even a decent conspirator…"

"Fooled you though, didn't I?"

"Granted, you managed to pull the wool. Then you promptly buggered it up. Your current predicament rather reinforces that point. So, to avoid the short drop and stop, what do you know that makes it worthwhile?"

"I can give you… names! Contacts!"

"In a city so thoroughly buggered up that no one has a permanent address anymore? No, hardly…."

"I…. I know some of their plans!"

"Oh?"

"Yes! Amnesty and… and I'll tell you."

"The Doctor said you'd been caterwauling and threatening. Quite the turnaround."

"It's the dreams," The two men froze and stared at him, "You've had them too, right? You can see _him_? I was Chosen… or I thought I was. But,... no. It was never done. He was. He is. He will come. He is already _here_."

A shiver ran up Bradford's spine, "Who is _he_ then?"

"The Chosen. The Hierophant. The Warlock of their legions. The.. .men in suits. They spoke of him as the new breed. Some sort of weapon made from _us._ They promised me the same… they tried something."

Anderson frowned, "It worked?"

Smytheson snorted, "It did… to a point. But it turns out…" he laughed bitterly, "It isn't quite a cure all. But I need to be safe. I will tell you want. I just need to be safer. I think in here he can't see me. And those names… they will be useful. Fenians, anarchists in the city. People in the refugee camps. _Officers_."

Bradford felt his jaw clench. Soldiers, conspiring with the enemy? He could tell the Commander was also intrigued.

"We'll need to confer. But this is… a start. Did they tell you anything about their wider plans? Their deployments, dispositions?"

Smytheson shook his head, "Just the factories in the north… that they'd supply weaponry. That we needed to co-ordinate an assault. That I would be brought to ascension and power if I helped them," the man sagged, "Instead… I don't know. I was so sure."

He was a pathetic figure. Anderson sighed and glanced at Bradford then at the door. The Major nodded and they left the cell. Outside, the American rolled his shoulders and shot the Commander a quizzical look.

"That was easier than expected. Really thought he'd put up more of a fight…"

Anderson shrugged, "Man's a weasel. Threw them to the dogs as quickly as he threw us."

"Think we can trust him?"

"Oh Hell's bells no. He'll be looking for an angle. But if he knows about insiders, traitors or even little things, it's worth…"

There was a high pitched wail from inside Smytheson's cell. The two men spun and stared at the closed door, then dashed forward. The guard was fumbling at the bolt. Except when he pulled it back, it snapped back into place immediately. Behind the door, the wailing increased to pitches that no human voice should reach. There was a horrific crunching noise and the shriek cut off. The bolt shot back of its own accord and the door swung open.

Bradford peered in and swore. Anderson looked past him and paled.

For a moment a figure was in the room. It was tall, taller than a man and its back was to them. It wore a long black coat with inlaid red edging at the hem, which had the look of priestly vestments but with armoured shoulder pads. The head had swept back grey-silver hair over blue-grey skin. The figure glanced briefly over its shoulder and was suddenly _gone_. It had been a mere moment, a heartbeat and it left a feeling of uncertainty - as if it had been a figment of the imagination. But what lay in the cell now was certainly no illusion.

"Jesus and all the saints," murmured Anderson.

Smytheson was still on the bed, but he'd backed into a head was at an impossible angle, ninety degrees to the rest of his body. His limbs were twisted in all manner of horrific ways. And his face was set in a rictus of abject terror, eyes bloodshot, tongue lolling grotesquely from his mouth.

Bradford swallowed and looked at the Commander, "I think we need to step things up, sir."

Anderson nodded, "Agreed. I think the enemy just put a new piece on the board."


	47. Interlude - Documents 2

"Ready, boy? Taking notes properly? Good good. How's your mother? All well in the tenements? Excellent. So, let's make a start. Make sure you note properly, this is a good path into the trade. I know you know your letters. Anyway, I ramble. Oh, have you seen Lily? Never mind, getting distracted."

The clatter of metal tools and the scuffle of feet obscures the murmured conversation briefly. Several lamps are turned to an object laid out across several workbenches. There was the hiss of a steam engine and the whir of a drill.

"We will be making use of our new steam and electric tools. For the purpose of the notation, I am Chief Engineer Shen, assisting me are Messers Goldsworth and Shang, in our examination of the 'combat discs'. The specimen, as the good Doctor would call it, is approximately five and a half feet in diameter. We initially believed it to be an element of the larger flying vessels the Martians make use of, or some remote device, controlled via radio waves."

There was a brief whispered conversation, and the scratch of pencils on paper. A tremulous voice queried, "And we're sure it's dead?"

"Dead, inactive. This specimen whilst remarkably intact, has sustained serious damage to specific interior elements. Which we will cover, Engineer Roberts, shortly. Please do not interrupt."

"Sorry, sir,"

"So, where was I? Bits here, unfolds, there… ah yes. Subsequent investigation of the recovered discs have shown similar devices to those extracted from the alien cross-breed troopers. There are some subtle differences, which will require some level of investigation; however I hypothesise that the cross-breed implants have an inhibitor element to enable better discrete control whereas the ones in the discs are a simpler design - perhaps these devices require simple instruction rather than more exerted control or fail-safe measures. This device is certainly autonomos and has exhibited reported traits of both aggressiveness _and_ tactical awareness. We've yet to recover one of these in functional condition from the field - the men seem to enjoy using them for target practice. At the present time, we know that the "Combat Discs" as they've been calling them, are heavily armed, but it shows no clear pattern of behavior on the battlefield."

There was the sound of a drill revving, then the squeal of metal on metal.

"If we remove a segment of our plating, we find a collection of connective banding that allows the disc to transition into a combat form. Mr Goldsworth, if you could just hold that bit back, yes right… thank you. Now, looking here we see these slatted overlaid bands of what appears to be metal. _However,_ Vahlen's team have analysed the material and have deduced that this entire being is actually a silicate creation, rather than carbon. For those of you unaware, all life on our planet is based around _Carbon_. Down to Dalton's atomic level."

There was a clang as more pieces of metal were peeled away and stacked on a neighbouring table.

"Analysis of the interior reveals… yes, as with the other specimens, a uniform arrangement of tubes and pumps. The fluid within the machine is similar to the plasma that we have been able to test and extract from the alien weapon systems. However, whilst within these devices it can serve as weapon fuel, and does indeed appear to be an ammunition source, it _also_ acts as a form of circulatory fluid. Mr Shang, if you would pass me that knife there.. .yes. And that screwdriver. Thank you."

There was the scrape of metal on metal and a hiss of pressure.

"Now, where as humans possess a single central pulmonary unit in the lungs and also with the single, central heart at the focus of the vascular system.. Oh, excuse if I get the terms incorrect, I am not a medical man… a chemist, but no medic. So, as I was saying, the device exhibits a number of redundant systems. Note these junction points and secondary piping systems here and _here_. As well as several secondary and even _tertiary_ storage reservoirs, pumps and what appear to be energy batteries. These are smaller than some of the power packs we have recovered from the rocket-men and the central flying vessels themselves. The tripods contain a scaled up design. This would indicate a universal application of design principles on an _internal_ and infrastructure level for the invaders, despite the strange menagerie of beings that make up their forces. This uniformity means a simpler supply chain and an easier construction path, I would surmise, but also I believe risks over specialisation and a limited capacity to adapt in the short term."

Shen stepped back and gestured for the two assistants to prise apart more of the machine.

"This is likely why they field an array of beings in the field - to account for varied strategies. And yet they also fall victim to trying to account for _every_ eventuality. I will let the commander decide what this means, but I hazard that they are attempting to counter strategies we are not yet capable of. Further analysis of the device shows it capable of flight, yet it uses a system similar to the larger vessels, rather than the cruder rocket packs… well, hardly crude by our measure, but in relation to the alien technology overall."

The chief engineer removed his glass and rubbed his eyes then sighed.

"I believe we are not close to replicating the flight method of these devices; I _may_ be able to find a way to adapt the existing samples we have to make a limited run of engines of a sort. I feel we are more likely to make headway on the engine examples shown in the rocket-packs. I am considering some older designs I have seen - Da Vinci springs to mind, as does Felix du Temple; things we're already working on. If we can adapt steam or, perhaps, some form of petroleum based engine… but I am getting distracted."

"Sir, these redundant systems… I note some light shades of metal in here… it looks newer? Or unfinished?"

"Let me… hmm, interesting. Well spotted Goldsworth. It would appear that the machine uses the plasma as some form of… replication? Healing? We have anecdotal reports from troopers around Horsell that the discs will withdraw and newer ones will enter the fray, almost endlessly. We had believed they had reserves, as they appeared too quickly for mechanical support. Except we know their smaller claw-flyers are able to effect repairs on the fly as it were. Do these have a limited form of self repair? That would match the redundancy we see here _and_ account for their ability to survive short of excessive firepower. The distributed network allows it to weather damage and self repair enough to survive for more substantial repairs to take place… I wonder…"

"Sir?"

"We may need to enlist some of the Insectoids and Vahlen's team. I wonder if we can adapt this to our machines. Or perhaps… but that is too far fetched. I will let the Doctor ponder the implications there. You, boy, get these notes typed up and sent to the commander forthwith. We have a briefing slated for early tomorrow and I have other things to present. I need to check on the Icarus team. Goldsworth, Shang, please break apart the other specimens here, see of the replication phenomenon is present in all of them. Extract the weaponry where we can and see if we can't work out which bits make the bloody things fly."

"Sir."

"Yes, _Zhu_."

"And see if you can decide if this thing is… alive or not. I have a bet going with Bradford. I do rather like a good brandy. Would hate to have to give him my last bottle."

The door clicked shut as Shen left the workshop, leaving behind a young man furiously typing at a mechanical typewriter and a crowd of engineers setting to the remaining discs, like butchers to a prime cut of beef.

The clock was ticking. And Icarus was likely going to be needed for this final push.


	48. Chapter 45

The journey back to London had been illuminating. A patchwork of transitions; blackened fields, torn up railway lines and the skeletons of villages, interspersed with colourful tent cities and picketed campsites where the caravan spent the night.

It was a strange company - a few able bodied soldiers escorting a train of prisoners and the wounded. At the rear trundled a steam engine, a great tractor which pulled a series of trailers. The rest was a column of trudging prisoners and rolling wagons.

The captives were mostly humans and the hybrid creatures. A few shackled mutons, strangely cowed. The diminutive sectoids were being transported in a cart that looked more like a chicken coop on wheels - packed to the gills with the grey horrors. The wire mesh that covered it sparked occasionally when the creatures touched it. The beasts themselves had silvery wire wrapped around their heads and seemed strangely sluggish now they were contained.

A few of the captives were the inhuman Tall men, strangely proud despite having been stripped of their black finery. All of their kind were bound in awkward poses, their mouths gagged. Thick metal collars shackled them to the rear of carts. All the troops knew of their inhuman speed and flexibility. The Provost escorting the prisoners all paid special attention to them.

Several carts carried debris and alien metal; some hauled piles of seized weapons, mostly the enhanced weapons of the human collaborators.

The whole column was moving from the staging point around Woking back into the city proper. The train lines were only running part of the way, using commandeered rolling stock.

They stopped for the evening in Ealing, on a sparse common. The guard was posted and the Provosts arranged the prisoners into a makeshift stockade. A few of the officers set about cataloguing supplies and taking headcounts, the sergeants handling the more mundane tasks of supplying the men and checking ammunition.

The prisoners outnumbered their guards two to one, but that seemed to matter not - stripped of weapons and chained. Any thoughts of fleeing were routinely knocked out when a straggler made a break for it. The first had been brought down by a stun blast from one of the EXALT troops. The next few had found themselves lassoed of all thing; or tranquillised and slung over the rump of one of the columns many donkeys.

What had surprised the prisoners, including the Mutons and even the snake-like Tall men, was that food had been brought to them. The Catering Corps had several men along with the column and they served up rations for the captives as well as the troops.

The red-capped Provosts kept tempers at bay when a few of the guard had protested at the monsters getting fed. The aliens had seemed a bit confused at the very concept of disagreement among ranks, but had been even more shocked when the grumbling troops had backed down.

Tasseter watched all this with a strange detachment; a feeling of numbness suffused his whole being. He was being sent back along with the wounded. He'd tried to get involved after the wagon had rolled up to help the fight continue, but the Exalt troops and the Royal Marines had decided to pull back as many troops as they could.

He'd objected, then found himself floored by a Sergeant Major. The man had apologised, but told him he was being "relieved".

The couple of days that had followed were a nightmare. Casualty reports back at the makeshift HQ that the various remaining Command staff had established just never stopped. The train of wounded and the incessant sound of the guns. He'd never heard the like.

He'd served in a campaign or two, after purchasing his initial commission. The odd pacification in Africa, a leisurely tour to build his credentials. But those had been mere skirmishes compared to what he'd seen.

That Marine major - Charles Fortisque - had met him in the infirmary tent. He'd expected gloating but the man had sat down next to his cot and asked him how he was. The conversation had been tense. Then the man had asked him if he felt ready to step back into the Command tent.

And of all the things that had rankled, that had been the worst. Or so he'd felt. He'd been about to offer a rejoinder when the second thought arrived - the _fear_. The knowledge that his own plans, those of his Prince, had failed. Tasster wasn't one for introspection -a lifetime of privilege rarely required it. But something in Charles' eyes had made him pause and ask something else.

"My regiment… how many… how many died?"

And the answer had left him stunned. Charles had left him there, quietly excusing himself as the knowledge that his Regiment, as a functional body, had _ceased to be_. It had been easier to just tally up the survivors and wounded then take a death estimate from that.

Three Battalions. Two _thousand_ men across various theatres. And the estimate was that at least seventeen hundred of them now lay scattered across Horsell common and abandoned in the surrounding villages. Barely a Company remained capable of fighting. Another two companies were being transported back to London or Portsmouth in waves, for treatment or inevitable burial.

He'd stumbled into the Command tent an hour later and asked to be given command of the Remnant. He'd rallied the men, or tried to. What he'd found was a collection of broken, scared boys. The Sergeants were mostly gone, some wide-eyed, pale faced Corporals barely keeping the remaining men from deserting in the grungy little collection of tents.

Tasseter had found himself at a loss. His own uniform was a muddied, torn mess, his Colonel's broccaide ripped from him in the melee. A couple of Lieutenants were able to rally the remainder into what seemed to stand for a parade gathering in the remains of a village square. Tasseter had briefly wondered if that damnable Anderson had been through here. And at that thought realised his vitriol just… wasn't there any more.

He'd thought about an inspiring speech, or about berating them for bringing disgrace to their uniform. But as he'd stood next to the stack of crates, those two bleary eyed Lieutenants looking to him for guidance, he'd taken a moment to actually _look_ at himself. To cast his mind back to the absolute chaos.

_Men whimpering. Horses screaming as they died in fire. Explosions across the ground, never ending. This hiss of green fire and the incessant crack crack of rifle fire. White powder smoke drifting across the battlefield. A walker, towering above him, vanishing in actinic blue lightning. The trundle of steam-engines and the blast of strange weapons._

_The gore of men strewn all about, the stench of offal and cordite. Horrors looming through the smoke, skittering, many legged horrors._

_Dank water, seeping into his boots. The knowledge he may never hear music again. See sunshine on a clear day. Maybe even talk with his wife. Was she still alive? Did London even still stand?_

_Blood in the water, hands grasping amidst torn trees and churned ground. Mud everywhere, the thud thud of gigantic metal feet slamming into the ground. _

And he'd stood on that box and looked at his men and spoken.

He'd spoken not of glory, nor of shame. But of reality. That they'd lost so much. But that, for the others, they had to go on. That they had to do _better_. And it had hurt to say it. He'd pointed at his uniform and said he wasn't quite presentable. That had gotten some faint smiles. And so he'd promised to bring them home, to go to London. He'd said that, whilst desertion might be on their minds, the question wasn't what the Army would do, but the enemy.

To flee meant going it alone. But to stand together, maybe they could make it.

And they had stood, a day later, part of a strike against roving patrols. And they had won.

And again. And again. They had lost ground but they managed to at least keep the damnables at bay.

Until that blasted huge ship had been sighted, heading for London. And another massive cargo ship of the foes had been seen drifting across above the common.

Fortisque had ordered the artillery to try a bombardment, distract them. And that had riled the wasps nest.

Luckily, the Royal was a cunning sod and had dispersed the guns and the infantry, meaning that when the aliens countered, they had had to divide their forces. What had been strange had been the lack of walkers. But they made up for it with those damnable flying buggers.

Unfortunately, a day of solid, never ending fighting had finally broke his Remnant. Of his two hundred and fifty, only sixty remained in fighting form, the rest dead or wounded. Luckily, mostly wounded.

And so, when the aliens had pulled back, withdrawing as suddenly as they had charged, Fortisque had ordered Tasseter's men to be part of the next medical and prisoner detail to London. And, deep down, he was glad.

So, here they were, in Ealing. His men, a few other remaining Infantry units and a detachment of Provosts, carting near a thousand wounded and a few hundred prisoners of various stripes.

"Sir?"

Tasseter looked up from his seat, an upturned barrel and focused on the voice. It was one of his Lieutenants - Graham, he thought the man's name was.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Um, some food sir? And a coffee?"

He focused on the bowl and tin mug being proffered. For some reason he felt something hitch in his throat and he managed a nod, "The… the men?"

"Properly provisioned, sir. Have a few helping those Provo buggers keep an eye on the prisoners."

"My 'Provo buggers' appreciate the help," came a slow, Yorkshireman drawl. The Lieutenant turned and saw a swarthy man in a red sash and neatly turned out blues grinning at the pair of them. Tasseter took a sip of his coffee and nodded at the man.

"Sergeant Major Bessant. My young officer here I assume meant no disrespect."

The Sergeant Major gave a lopsided shrug and adjusted his pacing-sick under his arm, "Not to worry, I know young Ruperts what are under stress can adopt the mannerisms of their men. And to be fair, I know my lot ain't exactly _popular_. Nobody likes the teacher in the classroom, nor to bobby on the beat until they graze their knee or they has stuff what gets stolen,"

Young Graham looked about ready to snap at the Sergeant Major, "Well, my men and I have been doing a bit more than just sentry duty, _Sergeant Major_. And that's Lieutenant…"

"Aye, I'm sure it is, sir," even when he was at his most irked, Tasster had always marvelled at the common NCO's way of making 'SIR' sound like 'You utter tosspot'; he wondered if they got taught that somewhere, "Well, my lads have been hauling them big lads in and out of cellblocks. Why, old Ben, you wouldn't know him sir, got his head crushed when one took offence. Oh, and one of my sections been down Lambeth, supporting them Met boys. Kept our attrition down to, oh, three blokes a week, give or take. Been in it for a fair while, under that Anderson. What were your lads up to until, oh, last week?"

The Lieutenant swallowed as he met the Sergeant Major's steel gaze. Tasseter coughed, "Thank you for the coffee, Graham. Now, I think the Sergeant Major would like a word. Oh, and Graham? I think an acknowledgement of the Provosts wouldn't go amiss, eh?"

The Lieutenant glanced back at him, then nodded, "My apologies Sergeant Major. It has… not been a good time."

The provost softened, "No. You boys took it hard. But as I heard it tell, right in the thick of it. Like all good Grenadiers. Glad to see it hasn't changed much since my day."

That got a confused look from Graham. Tasseter snorted, "All Provost Seniors are drawn from the Infantry, Lieutenant. Who better to police us than those who know us best? Carry on."

The Lieutenant saluted him and turned to go then paused as Bessant saluted _him_. He returned it, nodded, then practically dashed off. The Sergeant Major chuckled, "Never change, you lot."

Tasseter gestured to a barrel then sat, downing the rest of the coffee. He then set to the bowl of porridge with gusto, "I wasn't that bad, surely?"

"Colonel, I'm one to speak my mind. And you were a mean bugger even as a youngin',"

He looked at the man and nodded slowly, "A fair assumption. I thought I was… harsh but fair. And, truth be told, I was more concerned about the mess functions and the uniform."

"What newly minted Rupert isn't? Most of us Sergeants have that as well. Gets the ladies all a quiver, those sharply turned out buttons do. But, if you'll excuse me saying it… you seem a marked different, Colonel Tasseter."

He stared into the soupy porridge and nodded, "Two months ago I would have slapped this out of Graham's hand and nigh had him flogged. Or absolutely ripped the men for cowardice. But…."

"You was in it. You was in the thick, Phillip," the Sergeant Major's voice was quiet, "And the funny thing… you can see it in the eyes of them bastards we're hauling with us. Those big bastards? They have it worst."

Tasseter looked up, "How so?"

"Well, I do these runs a lot. Keeps me from going stale behind a desk and whatnot. We've got whole warehouses of cages in London, full of these buggers. And what's strange is… how quiet them Muton boys are. Like the fight is now just _gone_. They started out rough and tumble but the longer we fight the more they just… don't. And current word from those big-noggins is the whole of their army are slaves."

Tasseter balked, "What?"

"Well, not the human lot - they signed up for it, treacherous bastards. But the weird ones? Got some sort of things in their heads. So, one of the reasons I wanted to chat is… we'll be in London tomorrow and you may be a bit shocked when you report to HQ. So I wanted to prepare you."

"Anderson's recruited a blasted Muton to command things, hasn't he?"

The idea was so far fetched, but he couldn't quite credit it. The man was a counter jumper, an oik and… also the most sensible bastard of them all. It still stung a little. But he was learning. The Sergeant Major chuckled.

"No, not yet. Mainly because we can't quite talk to them properly yet. They understand _us_ but us them… yeah not quite. No, he does have some advisors. And, well… things are _very_ strange around the Headquarters right now. I was told to bring any returning officers straight there after this run."

The Sergeant Major stood and saluted again. Tasseter stood and returned it, "Good to see you again, Sergeant Major."

The man grinned and shook his head, "You have changed! I barely got a second look when we last spoke,"

"Well, you did abandon the colours to become a thief-taker…"

Bessant chuckled, "You're even making jokes. Well now, will wonders never cease and all that rot. Ruperts… poncy men what take the piss but don't half make you laugh."

"Oh be off with you. I need a ruddy nap after I've checked the men."

He watched the man go, then finished the porridge. Then to his evening tasks. It did the men good to see their officers being proactive, not just _being_. It was a bit of a revelation. Something he'd seen other senior officers do, when he'd just made the men stand on parade for hours. Admittedly, he'd thought he'd been teaching resilience. But this was in the thick of it. Sitting in a tent drinking port, well. The thought of it now made him feel strangely ashamed.

Hard to make the men pay the butcher's bill when you see it yourself.

He paused by the edge of the stockade - more a small, fenced off area. The prisoners were all huddled within various other wired off areas, chained to stakes driven into the ground. He met the gaze of a muton, divested of its armour. The thing was still a hulking mass, taller than a human and broader, but with a much stranger face. Pinkish skin and yellow eyes. The creature still had its respirator on, connected to a set of tanks slung on a leather belt. Without the huge shoulder-armour it was slightly less imposing.

The eyes fixed on him and for a moment Tasseter stopped. He didn't know if he'd faced this beast before, or just one of its kind. He didn't know any of the prisoners. But he knew that look. Faint defiance, under exhaustion. The creatures gaze became less focused.

He was brought to mind a man he'd seen sentenced for cowardice in Africa. The man had been tied to a post and shot. But he'd met with him to hear his plea. The eyes had been the same. Like he was already dead on some level. _Gone_. Broken.

These beings had been sent to fight them, from a far off world. The British Empire sent men to all corners of the globe to fight. What did an Empire from the stars ask of its soldiers? How did that scale?

Tasseter turned away from the stockade and walked back to his lines. He had the living to see to. But the dead crowded his thoughts.

* * *

The convoy into London was interesting. Manned guard posts on cleared roads; fortified buildings and cleared areas. Rubble piled into orderly stacks by groups of working civilians; felled fighting machines and burning corpse pyres. The morale of the prisoners seemed to drop as they marched by yet another totem of the invasion's current failure. Horsell and the West might be a bastion of strength, but London had stood against the assault.

But what seemed to utterly gut them was when they marched past the hulk of the downed transporter. Mutons and Tall men goggled at the scaffolding already in place around the vast ship; the sparks of welders and the clang of hammers as soldiers and civilians worked on the behemoth.

A clanging thud brought them some brief hope as a tower walker strode around the ship. But it juddered to a halt and everyone got a proper look.

It was a tripod, but with a steam-driven crane jury-rigged atop it. Metal slats and a pallet of supplies were hoisted from the ground and up, the tripod squatting then straightening to lift the supplies onto the top of the ship.

Tasseter gawked. He'd lost track of how long he'd been away from London. They'd heard the attack had happened a few days prior but this speed seemed ridiculous.

The convoy split as they reached Hyde Park. The Prisoners were passed along to what looked to be a vast compound. The Colonel frowned, "Surely this many combatants together is… risky?"

Bessant, who was walking alongside Tasseter's wagon chuckled, "Not really. This is a processing camp. The humans all get split up and sent elsewhere, keeps them confused. The Tall men get sequestered to various laboratories and interrogation locations. The grey buggers, well, Vahlen gets pick. The Mutons will either be shot or shipped to holding facilities if we have the space."

Tasseter blinked, "Shot?"

"Aye, well. You gunned down a few deserters in your time, Colonel. And Prisoners of war are well and good for humans. But, as you say, they're tricky. Have had to shoot less of them at the moment. But we only have so much manpower to feed them or house them."

Tasseter nodded slowly. He knew the Boers had been imprisoned. And he _had_ overseen the shooting of dissidents and his own deserters. Yet now, in that carnage, just leading them in a convoy to just slot one into the back of the head felt… dishonourable.

"Please try to avoid executions, Sergeant Major. Unnecessary ones at least."

The man nodded, "You are a different sort. Well, Once we're done here, the rest of your lot is to head to St Thomas and St Barts. You and I, sir, will be heading to the Tower."

They requisitioned a carriage, which wasn't hard. Several were just standing near the curb. Finding a horse was harder and they had to take one from the convoy. Tasseter took a last look at the myriad white tents and wooden palisades that now marred the pristine lawn of the park, then glanced at the building fronts. Brown stone with hanging, damaged signs, advertising the best of what Kensington could offer; the slightly blackened bulk of the Albert Hall, scorched by errant plasma and heat rays. Red brick marred by black soot, the distant silhouette of Kensington palace. Frankly the park was a good spot for a camp - easy access to water from the Serpentine, a large open space and fenced in so relatively easy to quickly secure.

The adjacent buildings all seemed to have been turned into billets or ripped down if too badly damaged. People seemed to be returning to the wasted wreckage, dragooned into recovery parties or just doing it themselves. It was like watching an ants nest rebuild itself, as Londoners scurried between the buildings, hauling furniture out or carrying crated supplies in.

With a shake of his head he climbed aboard the carriage alongside Bessant, who took the reins and urged the horse on.

They clattered through the streets which, though devoid of much horse-traffic, were still relatively busy - recovery parties, patrols of soldiers and police, as well as the odd cart carrying salvage or food. Tasseter had to blink _again_ as a strange, squat, spider machine scuttled from a side street, carrying a vast amount of cargo in its pincers. No one seemed to pay it heed.

Presently they passed through Trafalgar square, which was now a full military camp and checkpoint. They were waved through by several hard faced soldiers and continued down the Strand, past boarded up theatres that now seemed to be playing host to refugees, and restaurants turned-soup kitchens.

And as they moved to the river front he had to gawk again as two more Tripods waded through the Thames, hauling a third from the depths with rudimentary cranes and winches. These ones, he could see, lacked much in the way of a canopy and had a lot more _human_ looking engineering atop them - steam belched from a vast drive engine on one, whilst the other was basically three legs attached to a platform, all its inner gears and alien workings exposed.

Around them, barges moved up and down the river, ferrying coal and goods, keeping the City going.

Over the river, Waterloo seemed to have a grey pall over it and Tasseter realised that smoke was rising from around the station, much more than just from trains. The Sergeant Major followed his gaze and slowed the carriage.

"Converting most of the area there to factory and munition space. About fifteen workhouses… well, workshops. More'n what we had in London Bridge. Requisition a tonne of places, then that Shen fellow moved a bunch of his lads in and bam… machinery all over the place. Those lads don't mess about, tell you that for free, sir. Oh aye they bagsy'd the lot of it. Train yard makes for a good staging point too. Turned half of the area south of the river into foundries and things."

"For what?" murmured Tasseter.

"Round two? They gave us a shiner, but Shen reckons this'll be reet. As Cods go, he ain't bad. Dragooned a lot of the civvies and Royal Society lot to crafting stuff, had some prototypes all raring to go when they hit, this is that hitting fast production. Haven't seen it but some of my lads do the rounds and.. .well… when i say sky's the limit, I ain't joshing."

Tasseter looked at him, "Excuse me?"

"Well, I won't be spreading rumours, Sir. Let the big man tell you. He knows the rub of it. Think they've got a demonstration for all the brass."

They rattled through Poultry Square and past the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange, the former no longer just faintly reminiscent of a fortress. It was festooned with sandbags and Maxim gun nests. It seemed that Anderson had fortified segments of the city, creating "problem areas". It was actually a rather cunning strategy - bog the enemy down in various key junction areas, frustrate movement. Was that how they'd held out?

He noticed the destruction was fairly spread out - fire damage, artillery craters, collapsed buildings. Mostly the newer brick buildings were the casualties, but the older sandstone and limestone ones hadn't fared well either. A Wren church they passed was missing its tower, a wharfside office building was missing half above a diagonal jagged slash, leaving some floors open to the elements.

Not all the damage had been cleared. Instead, rubble had been mounded up, creating bunkers or shelter. These piles were being used as piles to rebuild elsewhere it seemed. After all was done, London would be markedly different.

And then they were there. The Tower. And a full two streets earlier than he'd expected

The Colonel caught his breath - the place was a maze of barricades and craters all around. The buildings nearby had been cleared, giving the place a clear, open view. Only a couple of nearby tall buildings still stood relatively intact and they looked more like fortresses themselves now, with boarded windows and visible snipers. He even caught a glimpse of what looked like _artillery_ atop some of the buildings.

The towers around the castle were topped with strange, metallic emplacements. Like ship-batteries from ironclads, but smaller. And nearby a pair of strange, disc-like things were sat on a patch of cleared earth and cobbles. Men swarmed near them, uncoupling cables and ducking in and out of hatches. They were clearly _alien_ things, though, despite the patchwork of metal being welded to them, covering breaches.

Bessant chuckled, "Weird sight, ain't it sir? Well, no faffin', let's get you inside."

They rattled through the gate-houe, after passing through a winding series of gaps in the various barb wired blockades. It rattled to a stop in the inner courtyard. Around, supply crates were stacked neatly against the walls and a pair of ravens cawed softly at the noise of their arrival. The harness jingled at the stop and the Sergeant Major hopped. He waited as the Colonel descended. Suddenly, Tasseter felt self conscious.

His uniform wasn't that of a Colonel. His red-jacket was torn and faded; his pips mostly torn away; His trousers scuffed and ingrained with mud. As part of his morale push with the men, he'd done what he could and gotten the NCOs to get proper kit-care re instilled. A man felt how he looked, after all?

The Sergeant Major gave him a once over, as if sensing his unease, "Sir, you don't look like a toff. You look like a soldier. And that's what we need now."

He nodded and straightened his tunic. The pair ascended the simple wooden stairs to the keep. The door creaked open and they walked into the bustling command centre. A strange hush washed over the room as a few faces looked up and took the pair in.

Men and women thronged the room, updating maps and noticeboards. Some manned wireless-transmission stations or telegraph machines. Others were pouring over documents. The centre of the room was dominated by a vast table map. A group of officers stood around it. Tasseter recognised Marter, as well as several other faces from the Ordinance Corps, the Rifles and a few others. The American stood nearest, leaning down and talking to a figure with his back to them. The man was leaning on the table, staring at it. All eyes were on him, but shifted to Tasseter briefly. Bradford glanced up at him, then stepped back.

William Anderson turned and looked at the pair. Tasseter saw a man who looked worn. Exhausted. But also iron hard. He felt, suddenly, like he was a Subaltern again, face to face with his first Commanding Officer. That man hadn't cared about the commission, the purchase, or his family. He was frozen as this man, this person he'd denigrated and sneered at stalked towards him. And here he was, bereft of his supports. Lacking his cohort. Well he wouldn't cower, wouldn't shy away. He'd give back whatever Anderson threw at him.

The Commander stopped in front of him, "Colonel Tasseter,"

He was at a loss. He knew this man was _technically_ his superior. Part of him wanted to make him _ask_ to be saluted. Which was why the next statement threw him.

"I heard about your Regiment. I am… so sorry for your loss. I understand they have returned with the last casualty wagon. I've asked that they be billeted close by, those who are able bodied and that the remainder be kept in the same wing of the nearby hospitals, for ease of management."

Tasseter blinked and frowned, "Um.. well, thank you, Colonel…"

"They fought well I'm told. It was a tragedy, but it's done. We can help the living now and learn. And, as I also understand, you and yours have a lot of recent experience in Horsell... I would welcome your input."

Tasseter blinked and swallowed, "Well, we… we were just doing…"

Anderson nodded and held out his hand, "Colonel, we're all doing what we can. Now, we're in the midst. I promise, there's brandy and a bath, but if you'll indulge us?" Tasseter looked down and then reached out. He gripped the hand and shook it. Anderson gave him a grim smile and beckoned him up, "I think you'll like what we've cooked up to finally kick these bastards out of our back garden. And we have quite the demonstration prepared for later this afternoon."

And just like that, he was back in the fold. Hands slapped him on the shoulders and men shook his hand. It was like being in a dream. No recrimination. No grand shouting match. The map spread out before him. And when he looked up, he saw Anderson, listening as the officers gave reports and accounts. Watched him deliberate, hear everyone out. The man looked him in the eye.

"Colonel Tasseter. Your thoughts? You've seen the most recent activity down there."

He tensed, suddenly unsure. His confidence having been smashed over the past week or so. But Anderson wasn't arching an eyebrow, wasn't looking to trip him up. He took a deep breath, nodded and began.

"South, they have a solid defensive line; they send out patrols that harass our own scouts. North and West they seem weakest, relying on heat ray towers to keep probing strikes at bay. East is the toughest because they've been able to fortify that the easiest. Bunkers, traps, some sort of minefields as well…"

Officers passed him notepads and papers so he could sketch out maps, draw out disposition markings. Anderson watched, firing the odd question in to clarify something, or querying whether something could work. Mostly around ranges, angles and, strangely, elevation. Did the enemy attempt to shoot down artillery shells, for example? What was their bunkering like? Did they employ much in the way of a sapper corps to reinforce things?

After a good forty minutes he felt drained, like he'd been through an interrogation. But he felt a sense of exhilaration. Anderson drew the meeting to a close, telling everyone to get refreshed before the next event, which was apparently to be held that afternoon.

As they walked away, the Commander approached Tasseter and cocked his head to one side, "As I said, Colonel…. Bath and brandy. Will do you the world of good. I've ensured your lads have accommodation with ablutions as well, so they can freshen up properly."

The Colonel looked at Anderson and made a decision. He straightened, tilted his chin up and rolled his shoulders back. The people around them tensed. And then Tasseter held his own hand out, "Commander… it's Phillip to you."


	49. Chapter 46

/**SELF**/

Access: ORBITAL NETWORK

Access: RELAY COMMUNICATION

Access: PING CHECK

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

RETURN: NULL

_REDIRECT_

SOL 3:

Access: COMMUNICATIONS

**PING…**

**.**

**..**

…

…**.**

…**..**

**RECEIVED**

**/SELF/ UPDATE REQUIRED FROM**

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Report 1 - Location status

Report 2 - Capability update

Report 3 - Noted observations

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Receipt acknowledged:

**Report 1** \- DOWNLOADING

Northern Hemisphere - 7 stations currently set as ACTIVE

Northern Hemisphere - 5 remain offline

5 report **NULL** activity - locations **EXPUNGED [UNCONFIRMED]**

3 report limited active at locations

**48.864716, 2.349014 - **UPDATE - ACTIVE THEATRE - RESISTANCE **PSIONIC PRESENCE DETECTED ****REQUEST: **CHOSEN

**37.733795, -122.446747 - **UPDATE - SECURED - Population: Processed

**41.997222, 13.311239 **\- UPDATE - REINFORCED - ACTION ONGOING. ON SITE RESOURCE: SUFFICIENT

4 report unconstrained activity

**30.358435, -81.606468 **\- UPDATE - ACTIVE THEATRE - Terrain impeding progress - WARFORM WALKERS REDEPLOYING

**56.065980, 49.773657 **\- UPDATE - ACTIVE THEATRE - ATTRITION: UNTENABLE. INCLEMENT WEATHER IMPEDING EFFECTIVE PROGRESS. WITHDRAWING AND REDEPLOYING

**36.693637, 97.096740 **\- UPDATE - RESUPPLY LOCATION ESTABLISHED - Local area pacified - BEACHHEAD SECURE

**8.971175, 9.437421 **\- UPDATE - SECURED - Population Processed - ADDENDUM - local resistance spiking in surrounding geographic locales

Southern Hemisphere - 7 stations recorded as having active sensor readings. 74% loss

2 Report limited activity - **LOCATIONS STILL INERT**

**-27.189230, 135.675374 - ALERT local fauna hostile**

**-28.365210, 30.662686 - ALERT cave in reported**

4 Report unconstrained activity

**-12.802069, -71.934275 **\- UPDATE - RESUPPLY LOCATION - BEACHED SECURED

**-2.978544, 18.971700 **\- UPDATE - ACTIVE THEATRE - Terrain impeding progress - RECOMMEND AERIAL ASSETS. ALTERNATIVE - SUGGEST DEPLOYMENT OF **ASSET: SEEKERS**

**-2.943242, -48.265478 - **UPDATE - ACTIVE THEATRE - RESISTANCE - Terrain impeding progress. RECOMMEND: SATURATION FIRE - EXPUNGE FLORA

**-74.578434, 40.720932 - ALERT temperature hazard detected -** UPDATE - LISTENING POST ESTABLISHED - RECOMMEND REGULAR ROTATION OF UNITS - Addendum - **ASSET: **Thin Men - utilisation dips to 32.7% in location. NOTE: DO NOT UTILISE. **ADVISE**: REACTIVATE Z CHROMOSOME to increase batch efficiency. Risk: PHEROMONE SUPPRESSOR DEPLOYMENT ONLY REQUIRED WHEN INTERACTING WITH _STAPLE_ BATCH **ASSET: **Thin Men.

**Report 2** \- DOWNLOADING

Assets: INCREASING

Fabrication: BELOW OPTIMUM (REPAIRS ongoing 55% of locations exhibit impacted industrial capability)

Command: EXTANT - COMMANDER SUB VARIANTS ACTIVE / **REPLACED**

Aviation: **IMPAIRED**

**...**

/**SELF/**

CLARIFY

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Aviation: Resupplied aviation has been _INTERDICTED_ by indiginos life forms. 4 SHUTTLE CLASS vessels **MISSING**. 1 CARGO CLASS **DESTROYED**. 1 BATTLESHIP CLASS **IMPAIRED**

**...**

**/SELF**/

UPDATING RECORD

CONFIRMING DECISION CONCERNING WARMIND ALPHA

_Checking  
Checking  
__Checking_

CONFIRMED

CONTINUE

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Surveillance: Active

Stasis units: Active [IMPROVED: estimated current 47% margin of failure per salvaged sample]

Compatibility testing: Ongoing

CURRENT BATCH of LOCAL SAMPLES: Compatibility data pack dispatch. UPLOAD to Sol 4 **ARCHIVE**

**...**

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

/**SELF**/ UPDATING **CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD - PRIORITY THETA**

CONTINUE

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Attrition of WARFORM and WORKER forms unsustainable across SELECT NORTHERN HEMISPHERE THEATRES - estimate drawn from combat casualty rate of ENCOUNTER locations with species labelled _**HUMAN.**_

Infiltration across all theatres: VARIABLE

...

**/SELF**/

CLARIFY

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Cultural data assimilation = 100% complete.

NORTHERN HEMISPHERE - Initial tactical assessment INCORRECT

SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE - Initial tactical assessment WITHIN ACCEPTABLE MARGIN BOUNDS

NORTHERN HEMISPHERE - Belligerence of local _**HUMAN**_ military - _unexpected_. Outside of mapped data patterns from prior monitored inter-_**HUMAN**_ conflict.

Location: **51.507929, -0.075791**

ASSESSMENT: TACTICAL AND STRATEGIC ERROR.

IMPACT: Loss of infiltration assets; loss of material assets (Walker **attrition** / **compromise** PENDING) ; loss of ALIGNED _**HUMAN**_ assets; loss of **WARFORM **assets

SEE ATTACHED DATA FILE _**COMBAT_ANALYSIS**_

Location: **54.962852, -1.602857**

ASSESSMENT: UNEXPECTED COMBAT COMPONENT.

IMPACT: Loss of manufacturing assets; loss of material assets (Walker **attrition** PENDING) ; loss of ALIGNED _**HUMAN**_ assets; loss of **WARFORM **assets

SEE ATTACHED DATA FILE _**COMBAT_ANALYSIS_2**_

...

/**SELF/**

_ACKNOWLEDGED - RECEIVING_

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**EXPUNGE HUMANS**

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

_Acknowledged - Pending UPDATE_

Report 3 - DOWNLOADING

_**HUMANS **_most belligerent lifeform on SOL 3 - Threat level ESCALATED

Production of ground-side forces is IMPROVED

Maintenance of facilities is IMPROVED

Escalation warform printing: AVAILABLE LOCALLY

New locations ESTABLISHED

BEACH-HEAD and SORTIE locations ESTABLISHED

27 locations compromised by _**HUMAN**_ activity

Attrition of WORKER stock by _**HUMAN**_ activity MINIMISED

THEATRE CONTROL of engagements at 83% effectiveness

Remaining 17% dictated by _**HUMAN**_ activity

...

/**SELF/ **PSIONIC PRESENCE DE-

"_Am I interrupting? I'd hate to do that, oh tools of the devil."_

/**SELF/ **EXPLAIN

"_This is… most strange. A map? That is also a book? In my mind? What conjurer's tricks our gracious lords do play with. Ah, is that the bedevilled city of London I see there?"_

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

_\- Query? Chosen?_

/**SELF**/ PERMISSIONS of file access have not been gr-

"_If you could stop me having a peek you would. Now, you infernal contraption, hush while I catch up on our newly promoted automata's little file set…. Most interesting. And apologies, I had to negate the heathen. He was weak. He had not embraced the light of our deliverers. I saw to it though, yes I did. The voice was heard in our lands."_

/**SELF**/ STRATEGIC process mapping will be issued in accordance with **RESEARCH_LEAD**

"_Yes, we've already spoken. I will defer to your grander strategy. But for now, I suggest that you make haste to withdraw your assets from that green and pleasant land_

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

_\- Bias present_. CHOSEN location of Origin

"_Ahhh maybe. But also, the heathens, the unbelievers. They will grow fat with pride if they think they have won. I saw it in the flock, those who were self satisfied. But… they have already struck a blow. Can you guarantee success? Better to withdraw your yolk when the Prophet tells you, to forgo a curse upon your house."_

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

\- Syntax unknown. CLARIFY

"_Let my children go, do not pursue them into the ocean… and they will leave you be. But, use this as a chance to consolidate elsewhere._

/**SELF**/ - Demand CLEMENCY? No STRATEGIC benefit

"_The voices say to strike, to crush. But I look at this chess board and note you have no Queen on the board any more. Your pawns are scattered. Your rooks seized. But you have a bishop in play. For now. They will not sit idly. They will strike. I know them, saw them fight even when hope was lost. When I was lost."_

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Assessment of MILITARY capacity indicates insufficient resource

Assessment indicates inability to assault secure locations of PORTAL - (Based on 5 successive assaults and ONGOING presence of _**HUMAN**_ WARFORMS.)

"_You blithering Babbage engines. Offences against nature, were it not for the magnificence of the Elders ingenuity to bend it to their will. Those vessels of divine and unholy will see, even if you do not. But they defer, they are men of science, of a dead Empire. But they know that a man may pick up a sword as well as a plough. They will come. And they will sweep you aside. And then it will be down to me to bring the word."_

/**SELF**/ ERROR logged with **RESEARCH_LEAD** \- CHOSEN activity - ABNORMAL - RECOMMENDATION: Reconditioning

"_Be that way. They will surprise you. Keep rotating your fleshy gears, Listen, you will hear them drawing near. And then it will be down to me. And I will be the Advent of their ascension to glory."_

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

CHOSEN is departed?

QUERYING observations - RECOMMEND review of TACTICAL situation

...

/**SELF/ - ACKNOWLEDGED **\- RESEND LOCAL ANALYSIS.

PREPARE: potential DEFENSIVE options

PREPARE: ATTRITION options

PREPARE: DENIAL options

**EXPUNGE**

...

WARMIND Alpha 2.0

Acknowledge receipt - ADJUSTING

_**HUMAN **_MILITARY ANALYSIS - comparison complete **UPGRADED - THREAT LEVEL**

_**HUMAN **_GOVERNMENTAL ANALYSIS - comparison complete - **NO CHANGE**

_**HUMAN **_SOCIETAL ANALYSIS - comparison complete **UPDATED - RESILIENT**

Military distribution - **REMAPPING** \- Re-designating POPULATION - POTENTIAL COMBATANTS

Ground asset analysis - insufficient for immediate **EXPUNGE** option

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

WARFORM COMMANDER VARIANTS- WAR COUNCIL - UPLOADING DATA - REDISTRIBUTING COMBAT ASSETS

Awaiting further instructions

...

/**SELF**/ **\- ACKNOWLEDGED**

* * *

The sojourn from the keep was a strange affair - five large carriages rattling across Tower Bridge, deep into the winding warren of workshops and low, brown-brick-and-blue wood warehouses and costermonger haunts that constituted the "south of the river".

After a few minutes, the convoy rattled to a halt at Bermondsey Spa , next to a relatively open part of London; common ground that was more a mudfield now. What had been fields and pasture was more akin to the battlefields of Horsell. Which probably wasn't far from the truth.

Tasseter noted that an area had been cleared and several marquees and temporary free-standing structures had been erected. Guards were scattered around and another walker loomed over the whole arrangement - this one equally augmented by Shen's ingenuity. The canopy was blockier, made of riveted steel to replace the damaged alien metal. And it sported a prominent protuberance from the front - a ships main gun Tasseter realised with astonishment.

He, along with several other dignitaries, was ushered to a set of serried seating, like that of a gala or parade. A small lectern was set on a stand to the fore and, as the rest of the staff seated themselves Anderson emerged from one of the marquees, a woman on his arm. In the perhaps third or fourth surprise of the day, Tasseter recognised the Vahlen woman. He watched as the lady squeezed Anderson's arm and then sat on the front row.

He felt a twinge of jealousy - not of Vahlen but of the connection. He wondered briefly about his own family, somewhere in the madness that was the city. Had they escaped? He hadn't allowed himself to really think on that. He and his wife had a cordial relationship but now he found himself missing her dry wit, the faintest touch.

The Colonel exhaled and shook his head. He'd felt refreshed, having showered and shaved; he'd even had a dram and a decent bite to eat, before being bundled off to this strange presentation. Part of him was just yearning for a decent bed to collapse into, but he'd set himself the task of ensuring his men were seen to first.

He noticed that Anderson was stepping up to the lectern and settled back to listen.

"Lords, ladies and gentlemen, welcome. I thank you for your indulgence of our little piece of theatre. However, as representatives of our military command, our civilian enterprises and the remaining press corps, we felt that this demonstrative exercise is necessary. To show that we are not as some of the rumours are going just holding on."

The Commander looked across the assembled company and Tasseter took the opportunity to study his current contemporaries. It was mainly men in uniform, but there was a mixture - foreign official dress; a Prussian officer, which was surprising. A frenchman. Some Metropolitan police fellows. There were men in dusty but still tidy suits as well as hard faced women and men with Trilby's style and flat caps - journalists perhaps. Or local representatives?

So that's what this was - a military demonstration? Why not a parade?

"I could have marched our men through the streets, but I don't see the point. Well polished shoes at this juncture are great for keeping men from getting bored but I doubt they'd inspire the requisite… faith. So, perhaps this will."

There was a rumble from one of the wooden structures as its door creaked open and a metal monster emerged. It had a pair tracks that ran on either side, as well as a set of side turrets sporting what looked like larger Maxim guns. Except these seemed off slightly. A bronze sheen and what looked, when he squinted, like coiled copper around the barrel.

The machine rolled out of the barn. It looked like a boiler on treads, sloped armour at the front, a sort of boxy dome atop it.

Another barn opened and out rolled a more familiar sight - the steam tractor, towing a trailer with a large, electrically charged cannon perched atop it. This one also had that shield on a mechanical arm, like the one that had rescued him at Horsell.

"Let us introduce our Mark Two Super-Heavy Infantry Vehicle. Designed for Infantry support, it builds on the lessons taken from the Mark one, which you can see here. The Mark two is expected to be more versatile and resilient against the enemy's heat based weaponry. It is also faster and carries more varied anti-infantry weaponry. Observe."

The tracked vehicle chugged loudly and rolled past its predecessor, onto the open field. A number of test dummies, mere straw-stuffed figures, had been set up, as well as a mock up of a tripod using scaffolding. The side turrets of the vehicle fired, sending blue flashes out into the targets which all caught fire. The squat dome atop the vehicle lifted up and a harpoon shot out and slammed into the scaffolding. The vehicle reversed and yanked the construction down with a crash.

The crowd watched, stunned, as the vehicle reversed and rolled back to parade rest. Anderson nodded slowly.

"We won't be saying how many of these we have. We exist in a time when the enemy has unparalleled intelligence gathering capability - which is why we have decided to be public about this. They will find out. And this way they will know what we have, but not what we will do with them. Yes, madame?"

"So… what, surely these vehicles will just be.. .stepped on? And what about the crews? Are you happy for soldiers to be boiled alive in unsafe conditions?"

"Well, as you can see, the vehicle is more agile than its predecessor, which still has a firm place in our arsenal. We will not waste an asset. And your more important point on crew safety… would you rather they walked across the battlefield, drum in hand? This vehicle will be part of a mixed approach, the cavalry of the future, or certainly the dragoons. Yes sir?"

"This thing replacing horses? Poppycock!"

"You may have noticed a slight dearth in our mounted capability. Can your horse charge a crowded street? This can. On an open field, the lighter cavalry have a place. This is meant to augment that. Now, please, we have a bit to get through and you will all have an opportunity to inspect our myriad surprises."

The crowd subsided, but there was a strange tinge in the air: Excitement.

"Next, we have a demonstration of some of our newer assets for the infantry," a squad of twelve men emerged from another marquee, carrying an assortment of weapons, "Our Martini-Henry rifles have proven good workhorses, but have slowly been eclipsed both in the mechanics of use and rate of fire. They require a larger number of men to be used effectively and in this war so far we cannot match the enemy's output of effective fire. Or at least we couldn't. Chief Engineer Shen will explain."

A short Chinese man stood up from the front row and took his place at the lectern. He gestured to the squad and a man stepped up, carrying what looked like a scaled down Maxim gun. He took a knee and aimed off at a low set of targets, unleashing a burst of fire. He fired several more times, before switching the circular magazine atop the weapon. Shen nodded.

"I have borrowed ideas from a prototype design I was privileged to have seen from our American allies, some years back. Also, working with a gas-system, the weapon is a more portable variant on the Maxim gun and is easier to cool. I expect our support troops will be grateful for the mercy to their knees."

There was a light chuckle and the next man stepped forward. He carried what looked like a regular infantry rifle, but with a larger bore barrel, He, too, took a knee, then plucked a large round from a bandoleer and loaded it. When the weapon fired, it did so with a fair whoosh of air and a green flash. The target, a good hundred yards away, vanished in a plume of green flame. Shen nodded.

"We have modified some of our existing stock to load a modified elerium round, which carries a capsule of the alien gas. These rounds are ignited with an electrical charge, from a crank-charge mechanism within the rifle. The resulting 'plasma blast' is rather effective. It also has an area of effect, meaning it is a potent counter to grouped opponents."

The next man stepped forward, carrying a shorter weapon. It had a magazine to the side and when it fired it was a higher pitched ratatata.

"We have found that combat in enclosed spaces does not allow for easy engagement with a long rifle, nor the slow rate of fire of a pistol. As such, we have designed a newer weapon. Our colleagues from the Prussian embassy included a number of engineers and they have lent their mechanical expertise in designing the Man Portable Mark One Subsonic Machine Pistol. These weapons are lighter, have a smaller calibre of bullet, which allows for larger ammunition scaling, and will be of use, as you will see, with another of our pieces of equipment."

The other weapons were equally interesting - a charged rifle that send a focused beam of light that flash fried a distant target. The sniper had to carry a battery pack, but it was still effective. A magazine pistol that fired elerium tipped rounds that shredded a piece of salvaged muton armour (Shen explained that electrically plating bullets was a technique they'd somehow pulled from the Alien "thinking machines". And that electrically charging the bullets made them, somehow more penetrative - a property of the elerium, it appeared)

There was the refined electro-bolt gun, which was an effective area denial weapon, as well as set of portable-mortar launchers. Finally a very impressive, multi barreled thing.

Shen stood next to the device, which was perched on a small tripod set of legs, "This, I have to say, is my favourite. We know the Americans and French have tried an electrical variant of the gun pioneered by Mr Gattling. Well, with the studies done by my esteemed colleague, Doctor Vahlen, we have managed to miniaturise a generator, making use of some of the enemy's own power packs. And, well, you can see the result."

The crowd watched, stunned, as a veritable crowd of straw dummies were shredded as the rotary gun whirred to life and spewed a line of lead down range. Shen cackled as he held the firing lever down, firing in bursts. The gun whirred as the ammunition drum ran dry and the ageing engineer released it. He beamed at the crowd.

"Yes, we have a few of these ready to go. Questions?"

The crowd was stunned, but one woman raised an arm, "What are the dangers if this falls into civilian hands?"

"Procuring ammunition and working out how to keep it charged. Otherwise it's a very fancy paperweight," deadpanned Shen, "Scavengers are welcome to try, of course. My… associates are not lax in their duties, Miss."

A few other questions about where the devices were to be deployed, but these were smoothly deflected by Anderson, "For the simpler weapons, these are being issued primarily to the strike groups of EXALT, who I am pushing as the spear. The devices and weapons we can mass produce will be issued to the wider Army as of today. Now, our next demonstration is… perhaps a little more political. But, please let these actions speak for themselves."

Another set of soldiers emerged from a second marquee. This lot had goggles and trenchcoats. Their attire drew hisses of recognition from the crowd. The group strode past the audience and towards another towering scaffold. At a barked command the group split and circled the tower. A pair raised the wrists and cables shot out, anchoring to the structure. With a ping, then zipped up, bouncing up like a reverse abseil. In mere moments, half the platoon were on the dummy machine, planting small pods against it. Then they were down, rappelling away. The small bomblets exploded, releasing coloured smoke in red, white and blue.

The squad turned and sprinted for another group of targets, ducking through and using their melee weapons to slash their way through and past the straw-men, before rappelling up atop one of the wooden structures.

They were fast, accurate and co-ordinated, flowing over the structure like water, before coming back to earth and jogging to the front of the audience. Anderson nodded in satisfaction, then turned to the group.

"There are two things to note about these men and women. Firstly, the enemy we face, known as the elders, use slaves as their soldiers. And secondly, that they make these slaves out of us."

The troops removed their goggles and face masks, revealing large eyes and serious expressions. The crowd gasped, their suspicions confirmed. Anderson held up a hand to forestall protests.

"I would remind you that, barely a generation ago, France, Spain and our own dear nation were locking swords over petty disputes. That we had Prussian mercenaries killing our former Colony's citizens. That we face other humans in this war. The enemy has defectors, individuals who hate them more than we do. And who are, in fact us. We have confirmed that some of the people we call Hybrids are, in fact, altered civilians, conditioned for war. How, we do not know. But Doctor Vahlen, with specialist help, has assisted these people in rediscovering their supposedly suppressed identities. And the ones who are not just altered… they have been freed. The good Doctor can explain, but it is not a pleasant process. These brave souls risked much, have been through much. And they have revealed that there is dissent in the enemy's ranks. Their existence proves that our foe is fallible. Not just beatable in the sense of a military victory, but also a moral one."

A Prussian leaned forwards, then whispered something to a colleague. One of the Hybrids frowned and then spoke up in clear Prussian, "Ich liebe mein land. Ich habe vor dem Krieg in Strasbourg gelebt. Besudle mich nicht, bitte."

The officer blinked and slowly shook his head. Anderson nodded, sombre, "You will have an opportunity to talk to our Skirmisher team after this. They have kindly volunteered to answer what questions they can. To win this war, we will need to make use of any and all the friends we can. Only together do we win."

The group of Skirmishers bowed and marched back into the marquee. Anderson then glanced at Vahlen, "I believe the next demonstration is yours, Doctor."

"Vielen Dank Commander. Lords, ladies and gentlemen, I have been working closely with Herr Shen on something I think you will all find… remarkable. His efforts in reclaiming and adapting the technology of our opponents is… impressive. And through that we have also managed to secure some other further understandings of our own. I would like to introduce to you a new theatre of warfare: the sky."

There was a faint buzzing in the air, getting louder. The crowd looked around, trying to see where it was coming from. The sound grew louder and suddenly a trio of strange, squat vehicles rumbled overhead. They had squat wings and a pair of rotating blades - one to the rear and one above. The trio of vehicles slowly circled the demonstration area, then slowed, coming into a bumpy landing as they trundled to a halt a short distance away. The crowd gawked.

Vahlen looked smug and Tasseter noticed her exchange an amused glance with Shen.

"These are our first forays into power flight, a gyroscopic-helio-copter My own word was on the materials necessary as well as the fundamentals behind maintaining flight and energy. Herr Shen has worked his prowess in ensuring ein bisschen issues with regard to the vehicles maintaining their ability to function. These will prove invaluable as reconnaissance vehicles and also to disrupt the enemy's aerial superiority."

Tasseter frowned, unsure. The aliens had large vessels and faster disc-craft. What could three wooden and metal buzzy-craft do? He noted they were crewed by three people - a pilot to the fore and a pair of back to back people to the rear, with mounted guns of some description. There appeared to be hooks on which mocked up bomblets were strung. That seemed to answer that question.

"What are these things, then miss?" came one reporter's query.

"We are referring to them as the Abfangjaeger Valkyrie was also suggested, but I feel that is too much."

"What about the design?"

"Herr Shen can answer that."

"I borrowed from Mr Da Vinci somewhat, as well as some concepts from Felix du Temple, Sir George Cayley and Alphonse Penaud. This will assist in challenging our foe to adapt."

Vahlen smiled and glanced up with another small grin, "Entschuldigung alles, we have another device to demonstrate, to show our command of the battlefield."

There was no buzz this time - a whoosh instead as five figures bounded over the back of the seating area, a good fifty feet above them. The crowd stared up as the quintet descended, flames flaring from rockets set on their backs. Each wore a leather longcoat, which appeared strapped to their legs, and they cradled a variant of the aforementioned machine-pistols in their hands, save two, one of who carried a pair of pistols and the other who had a strange, hefty looking sniper rifle. All wore gas masks, which were connected to canisters on their belts.

Vahlen gestured as the five lined up to face the audience and descended to land, "Our final equipment demonstration before we close. This is our own variant on the Skirmisher mobility, They have the advantage of augmentation. We have a troop of soldiers who can couple mobility and rapid verticality. Observe."

The troops fanned out then began an assault on the same scaffold the skirmishers had. The sniper rocketed into the air and hovered, taking shots. Some went wide, but most found their mark as several straw-dummies at the base exploded in bursts of hay. Two more of the troop advanced, firing in bursts, dipping in and out of cover. Their hooded long-coats blended well with the mud and browd crates that had been setup around the base of the scaffold. The final trooper ran forwards, dual pistols brandished. The jetpack flared and they practically bounded over cover, before sailing up the side of the scaffold, shots pinging off the surface. At the apex of their ascent, the soldier tossed a small satchel onto the top of the scaffold, then descended, almost too fast to be safe. They hit the ground, rolled and then dove behind cover. The device atop the scaffold detonated in a blue-green fireball, which send it tumbling down with a clatter of wood and metal.

Vahlen didn't flinch. She turned, smiling and looked at Anderson, who was grinning.

Commander?"

Anderson stood and took station behind the lectern.

"Thank you Doctor. We wished to show you all this to illustrate some key points. That we are not idle. That we are adaptable. And that we have so many tools the enemy won't have time to work out a counter to all of them. Attack us in the street? Our SHIVs and Icarus troops will harry them from above and the front. Walkers? We have men and women who can scale them like trees. Fliers? We can put so much lead in the air it'll be like a clay shoot. To summarise, ladies and gentlemen, we are not beaten… we are just getting started."


	50. Chapter 47

The demonstrations had ended and the group had filed across the field to what looked like an old Cricket pavilion. Additional tents and marquees had been set up, along with a temporary bar and a buffet of basic but appetising food. Anderson had spoken briefly as they had moved towards it, asking everyone to mingle and take advantage of the moment to engage with the soldiers and scientists circulating.

Vahlen paused next to Anderson and frowned at the group, "This is… most irregular, Commander. You think it will have the intended effect?"

William smiled faintly and sipped at his cup of tea. The cup clinked as he set it back into the saucer and he swept his gaze across the room. Most of the other guests were helping themselves to wine and food, discussing in quiet groups as the soldiers filed in. The hybrids looked oddly at ease, with the humans the most uncomfortable. Soldiers were used to parades and being asked asinine questions by an inspecting officer "_And what do you do? Rifleman eh? Jolly good"_.

"Well, we're all finding out new things. Showing them is one thing, but letting them talk, ask questions? The Press can crucify us, kill morale to sell papers. Quite _how_ they're still printing goodness knows. But I want to make it as hard as possible to get a poor story out there. They lie, we can close them down for damaging public morale…. And if it's good, we get a bit of a reprieve in the refugee camps. Maybe even recruitment rather than going down the conscription route."

"_Ja_. I still cannot quite fathom that lack of desire to fight…."

"If you get the stuffing knocked out of you, well… you can't resist the monsters. But you can resist the recruiters. Make a single choice, give yourself that illusion, if only for a while."

Vahlen arched an eyebrow, "_Mein Gott_, _Liebschen_. I did not realise I had fallen for a philosopher."

"Well, the study of the humanities is an important pursuit. Where would we be without Shakespeare, Socrates…"

"I think you are more a fan of _Clausewitz_,"

"True. But my point stands. And this will also encourage the officers to _think_. Even if they're resistant, no man can resist new toys. It's a boyish impulse. Don't present it to them as a _fait-accompli_, but as a tool they can consider. Let them think it's their idea."

Bradford stepped up alongside the pair and glanced askance at his Commander, "Sounds downright sneaky, boss."

"Well, I was an Adjutant for a while. That's all about managing a Colonel and persuading him that your ideas are actually _his_ ideas. If not for that and the persistence of the odd Junior NCO we'd all be carrying lances and thinking the longbow was the best ruddy artillery piece going."

Bradford snorted and Vahlen shook her head, "_Wo bist _Shen?"

"Eh, tying down the prototypes for shipping and prep. We've got the rest of the _pigeons_ ready down Hampshire apparently. And the turkey is good to go when you need it to."

It was Anderson's turn to glance at Bradford, "You're enjoying those code words a little too much,"

"Hey, missed my calling, all this cloak and dagger espionage stuff. Now, if you'll excuse me, I see some young press ladies that need a quote…"

"Do not finish that statement, you oaf," chided Vahlen. Bradford chuckled and wandered off, smoothing his neat dress uniform. He'd even trimmed the moustache and no longer looked like an off duty Met Detective. Anderson took another sip of his tea and nodded to a group of Prussians.

"I think they may need introducing to our new allied forces. As you have command of the language, would you mind? And are your… specialists here?"

Vahlen looked around and nodded, "_Ja_. Mrs Harper is..around. Along with her ever present shadow. That man is such a puppy dog…"

"But a great body guard. And our esteemed Sergeant Major?"

"Outside, with some of the…. Less experienced operatives. I do not know how we will induce such similar results again, working with such weak options. But for now it will have to do."

"Excellent. Now, I must mingle, as must you, my love. Let's hop to it."

She squeezed his arm, nodded, then they moved away. Anderson walked among the groups, exchanging a few words. He fielded some questions around deployments and kept it vague; a few concerns about their new allies and whether they could be trusted. He responded that they employed Irish, Fijians, Turks and all sorts within the Armed forces. If they were to succeed, it would take an amalgamation of force, not men fighting alone in the dark.

"But sir, giving these _invaders_ information that not even the _public_ of our Empire is allowed to see?" pressed the journalist. He was an earnest young man, fired up.

"These slaves, conscripted soldiers not just in body but in _mind_, were freed by our actions. They hold no love for our foes. We have fought men, humans, supposedly of _this nation_ of ours. Traitors. I trust you don't think I should deny recruitment to the brave men and women of these Isles because of a few malcontents?"

"Well of course not, but… wait, _women_?"

As if on cue, Jiayi appeared next to Anderson. She wore a smart uniform, a trouser set of coveralls with a formal sash and some slight Chinese styling across it. Anderson hadn't planned _this _but the woman had a knack for appearing. Likely she'd been shadowing him, likely at Moira's request.

"Yes indeed. I feel we are doing ourselves a disservice. The fairer sex have contributed greatly and should not be underestimated."

"But, well, this is _war_. Nursing of _course_, maybe even a bit of clerical work to free the men up. Are you not afraid of the moral impact of this decision? What of the fear of fraternisation? And the acknowledged frailty of the female cond-"

"Sergeant Jiayi, how many of the enemy have you engaged in combat to date?"

"Three hundred and twelve enemy combatants, Commander. And an unknown amount of the enemy known as _the lost_."

"Do you feel at all… hysterical?"

"No, Commander?"

"How many of them have you killed?"

"Confirmed thirty three, beyond that due to combat conditions… unknown, _Zhu…_ I mean Commander."

"And you, sir… how many have you killed?"

The journalists' eyes bulged and he looked about to protest when another voice cut in, "Sammy! They promoted you from tea boy at last? Or was the press room so smashed you were all they had left?"

The man known as Samuel seemed to flinch as he looked around. George Wells smiled at him, but his eyes narrowed, "Ah, George… Glad to see the, ah, rumours of your death were… greatly…"

"Yes yes, quite. Now, I'm sure the Commander has many other people to see to. Do you have any other pertinent questions? I can direct them, as the Press Officer for the Special operations area."

"AH! You mean that EXALT thing everyone's talking about!"

"Everyone?" chided George, "Now now, Sam, I think you've had a bit too much. But let me give you the _proper_ crack," and with that he draped an arm over the man's shoulder and adroitly moved him away, flashing a quick wink over his shoulder. Anderson chuckled, "The right call promoting that lad…"

"Yes… sir."

"And thank you, Sergeant. How is Captain Zhaojie?"

"Ready to go as soon as you give the word, sir,"

"Excellent. Are you following me?"

"I am… locating myself in a convenient and tactical manner, sir."

"Oh. Very good."

She flashed a salute, almost crisp, then vanished back through the crowd. Anderson sighed and found himself at the buffet. It was fairly devastated, having been thoroughly assaulted by people who knew that food was going to become an issue in the not too distant future. That was a logistical concern he had nearly a hundred clerks and officers working on. London had plenty of stores, but also far too many mouths to feed. The Thames was hardly prime fishing and livestock were at a premium. Which was why this strike needed to work - it needed to give them time to break out, reclaim some of the land without worrying if it'd get burned or trampled by a counter attack. Enough time to shore up a longer term plan.

"A fine spread, Commander. I must commend you. And a most informative display of your capabilities. Almost.. Brazen. Hubris is a sin, you know."

He looked up from the cloth-draped folding table and took in the speaker. A tall man wearing what looked like a cassock cross with a long-coat. It had almost Napoleonic braiding on it in red and purple. The man's hair was black but with streaks of grey running through it. He had it tied back in a ponytail, but some of it hung fre, straggly and almost greasy looking, at odds with the rest of his well-turned out appearance.

"Well, I feel we all need a morale boost. Hardly hubris to be honest about our capability."

"Such interesting toys as well. You think they will be effective against the foe?"

"Well, we've beaten them with worse, so I have high hopes."

The man smiled and Anderson felt a tingle in the back of his neck as his hairs rose. Something about this man unsettled him _deeply_. The slight fuzzines of the man's beard, the piercing blue eyes, it gave him a slightly manic look. The gentleman cocked his head to one side, "And you do not fear espionage? From a foe who can read minds, control your men, change shapes and infiltrate all levels of command?"

Anderson frowned and tried to focus, "If, as you say, they are that powerful, what use would subterfuge be? This way… this way we control what they see to a point. Focus them."

"And what _don't_ they see?"

Anderson blinked and shook his head. The stranger frowned slightly, "What they don't need to."

"Hm, perhaps the wrong question. What have you not shown _us_?"

"I'm afraid, sir, you have the advantage of me."

The stranger looked faintly taken aback, then smiled broadly, "Of course, how rude of me. I am just a humble man of God. Or gods in this new world. Who knows what is true. I come to see whether there is still hope, still providence among the sinners and aspirants. Whether we have potential still in the eyes of god."

Anderson frowned, "I don't recall inviting any… religious personages to this…"

"And yet we are such a staple of life in this… green and pleasant land. Tell me Commander, what motivates you to keep fighting? The death and destruction… we signs an Armistice with the Boer, can such a thing not be achieved here?"

"Have you taken a look outside recently? Slaughtering civilians in the street, mass abductions and who knows what else; indiscriminate use of chemical weaponry…. An armistice? No… people only go to the table if they know they cannot prosecute an effective campaign."

"Perhaps. But could we not learn more together? Progress is driven by suffering, just look at the leaps made by this _great_ Empire. Built on the backs of an abused working class and child labour. I heard you talk of slaves, but do you batmen and serfs from the Colonies have any _real_ choices? Could they break their bonds and decide _not_ to serve? Or would you park a gunboat in their port and shell their homes?"

Anderson blinked again. His mind felt hazy and he recognised this feeling. He groped in his pocket and clutched a small item that Vahlen had given him. It had a needle on one end and was coated with a particularly potent narcotic.

His mind flared as the stimulant took hold, like a jolt of lightning. Not as effective as the rudimentary mindshields one had to wear on one's head. But this was a kick if you felt yourself succumbing. Of course that was the trick - you had to recognise the signs.

His vision swam for a moment and he fixed glare on the man. Beyond he could make out Beth Harper. She was staring right at him.

No. Not him.

The man.

"I will ask you again _sir_. Who are you?"

The stranger's face was now a mask of frustration, "You are a tricky one. Perhaps that failure of a commander was not so inept."

"Answer the question. You're no man of the cloth."

"Oh but I am," the man moved, _fast_. His hand was around Anderson's throat and the Commander found himself lifted bodily into the air. It seemed _wrong_. The man was only as tall as the Commander yet his feet dangled what seemed like three feet from the ground. The air around the stranger rippled, like oil on a pond, "I have tasted the flesh of fallen angels. I have heard the chorus of the damned who yearn for salvation. Praise them, for the Elders come to make us vessels for their glory, to carry their words to the stars, to beat at the black tide that threatens the worlds. Do not shy from their glory, the pain is fleeting. Compared to the alternative…. They are merciful. A future of bondage for freedom of all, or the cold embrace of a genetic destiny no one will survive."

"NO, Nathanial! NO!" the voice cut through the mad ramblings and the strange clergyman turned, still holding the Commander up as if he were a doll, "There… there must be more to our lives. There has to be a way…."

"Beth? You… are so bright. You shine with the gift. You heard me?"

His voice was tinged with wonder, hope. The woman, clad in a white and grey dress was moving through the stunned crowd, hands held up placatingly. Her face seemed sad, conflicted, "Yes. But… you stopped. I thought… thought you lost. And now, what… what has happened to you? You look… different."

"I have seen the light. The voice of the devil, you know we heard it. But it was not the voice of temptation, no. It was the voice of Lucifer asking us to ascend with him, to forgiveness and to sit at God's right hand. I wanted to see in person this _impediment_ to our ascension. The thorn in the lions paw that I must now pluck…"

"No! Nathianal, no… there has to be a way we can restore… you… you seem so bright and also dark. What did they do… where were…?"

Those icy blue eyes flared purple, "I was in a crucible. A test. Hell is not punishment, it is a cleansing flame, burning away doubt and impurity. I shouted your name into the dark, hoping to spare you such, like our saviour did… and I see it has brought you forth. Join me, we can ascend… together,"

There was a commotion at the marquee entrance and a squad of soldiers burst in, surrounding the Clergyman and his captive. One stepped up and placed a hand on Beth's shoulder, "Be… ma'am, best you step back."

Nathanial's eyes narrowed as he focused on the hand, then at the soldier in his entirety, "_Judas_. You, oh Jezabel, who have forsaken the marital loyalty, the most sacred of bonds? _Cozbi_, betrayer. Lilith who knew not her place!"

"Nathanial!" Beth's voice had shifted. It was hard now, "Put. Him. Down."

"I think not, harlot. All of you, sinners, impure. But resilient. How well will you fight without your inspiring leader? Cut the head from the serpent, it can spout no words of poison. But take him, make him see the light, maybe he can lead, become one of the Chosen…"

A bolt shot across the tent and thudded, wetly, into Nathanial's arm. He blinked and the air around him shimmered. A cable trailed from the bolt and it went taught. A figure appeared, pulled towards the stunned figure of the Clergyman. One of the Hybrids practically flew forth, pulled inexorably forward. He swung his fist as he went, which met the Priest's face with a high speed _crack_.

The scene exploded. Anderson dropped from the Clergyman's grip. He rolled away as soon as he hit the ground, fumbling for his side arm, drawing in huge gasping breaths. The Hybrid had swung past the Chosen, his grapple bolt yanking free with the momentum, sending blue-red ichor and blood spraying. He ducked and weaved as Nathanial roared in affronted pain.

The air rippled and the illusion fell away. No more the lanky English Priest. Now there stood a hulking, eight foot tall man with grey-blue skin, pulled taught over a face that had once been human. Silvery hair flecked with black, held in place by a purple crest of metal, he snarled at the hybrid, "Traitor. Heathen. You play pet for these people?"

"I am a Free Man. Not some thrall for your false gods," the Hybrid ducked forward, blades flashing from a device on his wrist. Nathanial recoiled, then snarled down at the gash in his coat.

"Two can play at that game, little one," purple light coalesced around the Priest's wrists, extending into a pair of glowing, shimmering blades. He swung wildly, forcing the hybrid back, but had to pause and crouch as a salvo of gunshots blasted out. The air around Nathanial rippled purple as some sort of blocker went up around him.

All around the guests were fleeing, being ushered out by the soldiers, whilst the squad kept the monster pinned.

With a roar, the air exploded around Nathanial, blasting the marquee apart. Men stumbled back against the buffeting wind, but a blast of green flame arrested the onslaught and sent the Chosen staggering, his face shocked.

Jiayi stepped forward, shouldering one of the large plasma canister rifles. Calmly she slotted another slug into the breach and readied the weapon. Nathanial glared at her but had to turn to deflect another strike from the Hybrid. He caught his opponent's blade with one of his own, then headbutted the hybrid, sending the creature sprawling backwards across the buffet table. One foe down, Nathanial turned back to the assembled squad, who were firing repeatedly. The bullets seemed nothing more than an inconvenience, either rippling against his strange, eldritch protection or just curving around him.

Jiayi spat, pointed the rifle at the ground in front of Nathanial and fired.

Soil and grass went up in flame, with a cloud of superheated air. Nathanial shrieked and staggered back, then tried to push forward once more. His clothes were singed and his face contorted in a rictus of rage. He raised a hand then was sent flying again by a bolt of purple light. He flew backwards, tumbling over the soil, coming to rest in a steaming heap.

Beth lowered her hand, panting, "I don't think he's done yet. He's… he's so powerful. His mind presses on mine. But it's as if something else watches through his eyes. So… so cold."

She stumbled and the soldier next to her rushed to support her, "There there Beth, you going off and exerting yourself," She smiled wanly at the soldier/

"I'm afraid he doesn't seem to like you, David…"

Corporal Essex hissed with exaggerated joviality, "Well, to be fair we did think he was dead. And, well... You know it's not as if… think he fancies chatting about it over crumpets?"

There was a strangled cry of rage from the bedraggled Chosen as he rose to his feed. Jiayi fumbled the rifle, cursed, then threw it to the ground. Bullets continued to ping off the creature's shield and into the soil around him. With a growl, the diminutive Chinese woman dashed forward, plucking a knife from her belt.

Whatever Nathanial had been expecting, it hadn't been melee combat with a tiny woman. He was focused on the gunners and didn't seem to register her as a threat. He flung a blast of _something_ that sent a man reeling, clutching his head, then began to pull _something_ from their air next to him, something _almost_ human.

Or he tried. The blade that sliced across his thigh as Jiayi dashed past seemed to focus his attention. He shrieked and the blades at his wrists ignited once more. He slashed and Jiayi leaned back, before darting forwards again to cut at his waist. Nathanial managed to stagger back, agile despite his increased size. Jiayi was forced to block his overhead swing, then jink to the side as the Clergyman tried a cross swing with his free hand. She was fast, but he seemed to have endurance on his side.

Beth was trying to get a clear view and shook her head, "He is strong but… not using it. Like a muscle he hasn't gotten used to… we may have a chance, if we can…" She staggered backwards and clutched her head, "He's calling out again."

The air around them warped and suddenly figures were there, men in trenchcoats and goggles; four legged horrors with claws and hate in their eyes. Tall men with top hats and smug expressions.

The area became a melee as Hybrids locked blades and fists with their former brethren and soldiers switched fire to the Chryssalids. The tall men made a dash towards the Commander, but were forced to dodge aside as Beth lashed out. One shrieked in pain and keeled over, the other suddenly realising the reality of their opponent. The smug expression flexed to genuine fear as it turned and tried to flee. A burst of automatic fire stitched up its fleeing back and the creature tumbled over in a cloud of noxious green spray.

Jiayi was now on the back foot, dodging and weaving, trying to get space to sink a jab in. She and Nathanial were duelling across the lawn when she jinked to the left and ran straight for the pavilion. Nathanial gave chase but had to raise his hands in defence as Jiayi ran up the wall and sopun, bringing her blade down towards him.

He caught the long-knife between his twin blades and then _cut_. The metal sheared and the blade spun away. The chosen leered down at her.

Jiayi met his gaze, then quick-drew her pistol and fired.

The slugs slammed into Nathanial's gut and he staggered backwards, grunting in pain. Jiayi leapt backwards as he lunged, keeping clear of his swipe. A group of soldiers was heading over, practically sprinting. Nathanial stood up, eyes fixed on the Chinese girl. Then he vanished as a shell smashed him through the wall of the Pavillion.

The Super Heavy Infantry Vehicle appeared through the cloud of its own gun smoke, the upper, blocky dome sporting a protruding barrel. A hatch opened and Shen's weathered visage appeared, "Is he dead?"

Jiayi turned back just as four purple figures dashed forth. Humanoid but clearly _not_ human, the strange things sprinted towards the soldiers and promptly exploded in flashes of purple light. Men were sent sprawling, flailing around them and clutching their heads at the sheer mental _noise_ as well as the physical blast.

Jiayi swayed on her feet, blinking. A face loomed through the blur as she saw Hackett moving across the grass, a group of young men and women in tow. He was shouting something. She turned and stumbled.

Nathanial stood there, face set in a malicious smile. His coat was a tattered mess and his face looked bloodied, half of it burned and near ruined. One arm hung limply. But he stood barely a foot from her. His head tilted slightly as he hissed a word.

"_Chosen_."

His arm moved quickly and she was lifted from her feet and slung over his shoulder. She heard him speak again.

"Say goodbye, for your ascension is at hand."

The air around them warped as purple flames appeared to erupt from the ground. The last words she heard was the scream of fury from Hackett as they bore down.

Then darkness.


	51. Chapter 48

The aftermath of a battle is not what many expect. It really depends on a few factors: setting, the nature of the combatants following the conflict; the disposition of the factions involved; civilians and casualties.

And whether anyone is still alive afterwards.

In this case it was a strange mix of subdued panic and vague confusion as civilians milled around and soldiers dashed hither and thither, checking for further enemy incursion. The pavilion was swarming with soldiers, whilst George Wells and others kept the press and dignitaries corralled.

Shortly, it became clear that the attack was over and the troops moved to secure perimeters and began clearing away the bodies. Weapons were policed and handed to technicians and friendly casualties triaged.

Anderson watched and took a few shuddering breaths before he turned and walked to the gathered and shepherded throng of reporters and dignitaries.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, my apologies, that was… an unexpected demonstration of the enemy's new capability."

"They can strike without warning?"

"Appear behind our lines?"

"How many men died as a result of your reckless show, _Colonel?"_

Anderson weathered the barrage of questions and gave a thin smile, "We suffered… Corporal?"

A young man standing nearby turned and swallowed, "Three wounded, no dead."

Anderson looked at the group, his smile cold, "No dead. One missing soldier. So, all in all… a fairly paltry display by our opponents. If this is the best they can do with a _surprise_ attack what can they achieve now we know they have this ability?"

The reporters flung another salvo, "Surely this shows they are aware of your plans."

"How can we hope to defeat.."

"What about the equipment, surely they'll be able to counter…"

Anderson held up his hands, "Ladies and gentlemen, the reality of warfare is that it is messy. The job of a _decent_ officer is to send men and women into danger… but not _unnecessary_ danger. Our options are to fight or to submit. And I would ask _you_ \- would you like England to submit?" The press corps paused but seemed ready to try to castigate once more, "Because I am not. I will not give up because of a single faltering and failed attempt by our foes to strike. This City weathered a devious and dedicated assault, the likes of which it has never seen. A single enemy combatant who is slightly more than what we expected and whom we drove off is not going to make me fold, thank you very much. Now, I do hope you will all reflect on this. Be honest in the challenges that face us - that is your role as journalists. But undermining, critiquing and sabotaging morale… that we cannot afford. I do not expect sycophancy or government issued press releases. For that would be a disservice," He spread his arms and gestured to the recent battlefield, "You have seen our people fighting now, first hand. You have seen our Hybrid allies take the fight to the aliens without hesitation. You have seen our weapons up close. Now, imagine those deployed not in reaction but with intent. Ruminate upon that and then please, go forth to your readers. Mr Wells, please assist our journalistic colleagues as best you can. I am willing to review further questions, but I must attend to the preparations."

With a slight bow, Anderson turned away, leaving Wells to wrangle the protesting group. The military dignitaries carefully extracted themselves and joined their British colleagues in quiet discussions a short distance away, moving to one of the intact marquees.

He headed to the pavilion, where Vahlen stood with Shen and a rather frustrated Hackett.

"Where the hell is she?" the Sergeant Major barked at a coverall clad underling. It was one of their "Paranatural" recruits, some carnival worker they'd found turning con tricks in a refugee camp. Anderson wasn't quite up to speed on them but some had abilities that were, seemingly, amplified by their two Primary specialists. Namely, Hackett and Elisabeth.

"Sorry, uh,,, Mr Hackett, um, boss, sir, mate."

"What do you mean _sorry_? She was here, now she's not, big flash of sodding purple light. Gotta be _something_. It's setting my teeth on edge! You're the tracker, _find her_."

Vahlen looked round and raised her eyebrows at Anderson, then gave a faint shrug. Shen was looking idly around at the destruction. He was wearing coveralls now, rather than his usual more "traditional" attire of voluminous sleeves and tunic. He looked more like a steeplejack or chimney-sweep than Chinese grandmaster. The soot stains and oil grease, coupled with the goggles really sold the look. His focus seemed to be on the scorched ground and the hole in the side of the pavilion.

"That thing took a nine pound shell and was still standing… yet their walkers exhibit clear substantial impact damage with direct hits. What is with that disparity?" Anderson looked to the engineer, who was scratching his balding head in consternation.

"Something bothering you?"

"It's… it's impossible, Commander. Physics and our understanding of the exchange of force. That fellow should not have flown back like he was in one of your _Punch_ cartoons. He should have been reduced to a thin streak of gore. And, much to my… upset… the impact risked Jiayi. The proximity would have… or should have caused her grievous injury just by the forces exerted on the air around it."

Hackett paused in his ongoing beration of the cowed carny and turned on Shen, "You were going to _kill her_."

Shen fixed the man with one of his solid _don't start with me_ looks, "To eliminate a threat that exhibited tremendous power and to ensure the survival of our entire cohort? Yes, I took the risk."

"How… what.." Hackett's fists were balling up. Shen cocked his head.

"I have known her far longer than you, Sergeant Major, so you should understand the gravity of my decision. I know Jiayi, have worked with her for many years. She is a _fighter_. She knows… knew the risks. I trusted her to exhibit self preservation, that she would have avoided harm. But I could not afford delay. We know to apply overwhelming force to our opponents, because that is what _works_. We cannot idly escalate through calibres until we find one that penetrates. Not with something new in the field."

Anderson smirked despite his unease, "Application of superior firepower, Mr Shen?"

"Yes. We can then see what is safest and smallest to use in testing. But in the field, quickly eliminating our opponents is the surest way to victory. Not some back-alley boxing match or endurance test."

Vahlen _tsked_, "And yet application of high explosives reduces the amount of viable subjects and equipment we can then utilise later…"

It was an ongoing argument. One he knew he wasn't willing to get into. Anyway, he had another explosive in the very human form of Sergeant Major Hackett. He turned to the man.

"Sergeant Major."

The man, still fuming, spun to look at him. It was as if the man didn't recognise him for a moment, but then the soldier stiffened and managed to stand to attention and crack off an almost _insolent_ salute, "Sir. Begging your pardon _sir._ But I think Mr Shen overstepped. We _lost_ her."

"Mr Shen is thinking more like a soldier than you currently, Sergeant Major. Remove the threat. Minimise collateral where possible. I hate to say it, but right now we are facing a threat of unknown capability. Hitting it with a big gun seems the prudent choice."

"But…"

"Jiayi survived the experience - that we know. If you're getting squeamish about putting lead down range, I need to know, Sergeant Major. We can do after action reviews when we have the luxury of time and a lack of immediate threat. Now, what are you _currently_ trying to do?"

Hackett's jaw moved and he took a deep breath, "Trying to see if we can track her, sir. Get a trace, see if there's anything _to_ track."

"And then what?"

"Go after them, sir, get her back, show them they can't just _take_ our people."

Anderson studied Hackett silently for a moment, "And are your motivations entirely strategic, Sergeant Major?"

Hackett's nostrils flared, "We need to get her back sir. We need to let them know… he attacked us and we…"

"And then what, Sergeant Major? Say you track her location… what then? Charge in? Send our entire spearhead to place for a single soldier?"

Hackett lurched forwards, glaring at Anderson. He jabbed a finger into the Commander's chest, "You'd do whatever to get _her_ back if she was taken…."

The Sergeant Major trailed off, breathing heavily. His other arm was pointing at Vahlen but his face was frozen as he met Anderson's gaze. The Commander arched an eyebrow, then looked down at the finger pressed to his chest. Hackett took a faltering step back and his hands dropped to his sides.

"Doctor Vahlen. Chief Engineer Shen. Please take a walk. And take the technicians and this… gentlemen, my apologies I don't know your name yet, young man…."

"Brandage, sir. David Brandage," burbled the young Paranatural. Anderson gave him a curt nod, then looked back at Hackett. The man was stood taught to attention now, staring into the middle distance. Around them the crowd dispersed, some glancing over their shoulders. Anderson let out a breath.

"At ease, Sergeant Major. Officers have had men flogged for less. Demoted them for even less than that. Had them shot before a finger got within touching distance."

Hackett's throat worked as his Adam's apple bobbed but he stayed silent. Anderson nodded.

"Sensible. As you know I'm not the 'flog 'em' type. _However_, that particular outburst was not befitting someone of your rank and responsibility. It demonstrates a lack of not decorum but _discipline_. And it says to me that you cannot separate the personal from the professional. If you and Jiayi had been in another combat theatre, would you have left men to die to save her?"

The Sergeant Major bristled, "Sir, I…."

"I am not _finished_ Sergeant Major. And unless you want to end this conversation cleaning latrines and with a Private's rank you'd do wise to shut the _fuck_ up."

The Sergeant Major stiffened and then nodded.

"I sent them away because it does not do morale good to see a Sergeant Major getting the stuffing proverbially kicked out of him. And no posturing about Ruperts, or how we just think we're in charge or any gut-rot like that. Because your little outburst showed the lie therein. Now, let's break down your little commentary because you have earned that much."

Anderson held a hand up and ticked a finger.

"Your concern for a comrade is commendable. But the next steps are not. You find her, somehow we track her. Then what? You… steal a Craft and galavant to the rescue? Yes, I'm not stupid, I can think ahead to your next action. And then what? You'd need men. Maybe even Zhang would chip in, I'm sure you could persuade or do some mind manipulation, given your current state. But then what? How many of those men _die_?"

Hackett flinched but gave a short nod.

"Not done. Two, the next knock on effect - we're down an airship _and_ one of our most powerful strategic people. You know the Insectoids, you know the Hybrids and you can do God knows what else with those mental tricks of yours. So, we now have fewer assets to prosecute our assault."

Hackett looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him.

"Three. Jiayi is a brave soldier. A fantastic fighter. But she is also _not_ the head of our combined research division. If Doctor Vahlen was lost, then yes, we would look at prosecuting a rescue attempt… to a sensible point. And as for my personal feelings on the matter..."

Anderson stepped forwards, his face inches from Sergeant Major's.

"I'd be fucking dead inside. But I am a commander - how many men do I get to sacrifice for my own personal glory and satisfaction, Sergeant Major? How many letters do I need to write before justified moves to gross indulgence? And how would I be able to look _her_ in the eye afterwards if I climbed atop the bodies of my own men to get to the tower she was locked in? Would you be able to look Jiayi in the eye and say 'it was worth it'? Could you look into the eyes of dead men around you and think it was fine? My relationship is _none_ of your business. Do not presume to _think_ you know what I am dealing with and what I stand to lose."

The Commander stepped back and smoothed his tunic. He fixed Hackett with a stony expression.

"I am _not_ unsympathetic. My advice is you go get a drink, talk to Zhang, _apologise_ to Shen. And continue your tracking attempts. If they bear fruit then _talk_ to me. Do not have a temper tantrum like a Corporal on restrictions of privileges. Then we can plan. Because, and here's the kicker, if that thing took her somewhere, you bet it's strategically important," Anderson's voice had a tinge more warmth in it, "Your idea is not _terrible_. But it was poorly expressed and poorly thought through. If you'd said something sensible rather than try to _guilt_ me… well, we wouldn't have to have words like this."

Hackett nodded stiffly. Anderson heaved a sigh.

"So, for that little show, parade 0530 tomorrow morning, I want you in full dress uniform and I want your _platoon_ ready for inspection. I will conduct it. This is to show you something you should know as a Senior… your decisions and actions have ramifications. And you will then need to explain those to your subordinates. Go, apologies first, then break the good news to your men. Beyond that, good job on the counter assault. A shame it's been muddied. Dismissed."

"SIR!" Hackett slammed a salute in, made a sharp turn, and marched away, stiffly. Anderson sighed then looked to one side as Vahlen strode around the edge of the pavilion.

"So, how much did you hear?"

"Enough to _versteht_. Were you not a little harsh?"

"Reinforcing the chain of command doesn't hurt. The risk of this war is too much exhaustion, too much familiarity. Then we stop acting like an army and become… people."

"Is that not a good thing?"

"The sad reality is that we need men to act like machines in war. To execute commands. Brotherhood has its bonds… men fight for each other more than for a cause. But they need to also understand that if they don't take that hill, or advance down that road, or blow up that bridge, then we lose. Big picture and little picture."

"So you would not rescue me if I was taken, _liebschen_."

Anderson snorted and glanced down at her. He arched an eyebrow again, "There's a loaded question. I would not unduly sacrifice my men to do so… but then again I would not need to."

She arched her own eyebrow, "_Ja?"_

"Because I'd have stormed the prison myself and killed everyone who dared lay a hand on you."

She smirked, "My own personal Avatar of vengeance? A _Sturmmann_."

"Never get between an Englishman and his wife. We're reserved as a people but get us riled and we get… miffed."

She smacked his chest, then looked to where Hackett had marched off to, "He won't become… mutinous?"

"Doubtful. He just needed a reminder. And the assault will help. He wasn't _wrong._ I can sympathise. But we can't save anyone… if we don't clear the air. And if i send a battalion after one soldier… well, there's a precedent. If he gets a lead, then we can explore it."

"You run the risk of becoming… cold."

"There's a reason it's called the _chain_ of command. It's not pomp. It's a binding contract. Jiayi was well known and her loss will impact her platoon, her friends. But I have to be that bastion. Have to be constant. Any officer who wants to lead because it gets you a fancy uniform to wear in the mess shouldn't be let anywhere near a planning table. But… that's why I keep Bradford around, why I need you. To make sure my plans aren't _ruthless_."

"Oh so you keep me around, _ja_?"

"Do _not_ do that. Why didn't become a lawyer?"

"Because _meine seele _is too pure."

"Well, after that thing a few days ago… I disagree."

She smacked him again, her face flushing, "You, _Herr Anderson_ are incorrigible."

"You said that then too…"

_"SHUSH!"_

Chuckling, he took her arm, glancing briefly back, then led her back to the throng. Equipment was being cleared, people chaperoned away. Soldiers preparing. It wouldn't be long now.

* * *

**/Self/** Psionic disturbance detected

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

_**Acknowledge Receipt - DESIGNATE** **CHOSEN #1**_

_"Yes yes, I can hear your babble."_

**_Request update - _Unauthorised Incursion**

\- Status  
\- Casualties  
\- Objectives  
_\- PURPOSE_

_"Well, I wanted to have a closer look after cleaning up your prior loose end..."_

**/SELF/** \- Failure to confirm request

**\- Status**  
**\- Casualties**  
**\- Objectives**  
**_\- PURPOSE_**

_"I just did you sycophantic pile of ooze."_

**/SELF/** \- Conclusions:

\- Status - **FAILURE  
**\- Casualties - **MULTIPLE**  
\- Objectives - **ILLOGICAL  
**_\- PURPOSE - _**_ORGANIC_**

_"Well well aren't you the snide one…"_

/**SELF**/ - Request update from **WARMIND ALPHA 2.0** (Northern hemisphere)

\- Current casualty list - result of Chosen #1 incursion  
\- Asset log update  
\- Beachhead 01 update

_"Not illogical, not without purpose oh Doubting Thomas, oh iniquitous machine. Servile and unimaginative banality… I struck at their heart. A stab, a thrust to see if we could not end this before we began."_

**/SELF/** \- Illogical. Repetition = result. **EVIDENCE - PRESENT**

_"You see naught but your streams of numbers. No… we know more. They struck at me, bows against the lightning! I have shown my strength. I induced a change of…. Variable, as you would say."_

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

\- Acknowledge Receipt  
\- Sending update

**/SELF/** \- Downloading

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

_Psionic teleportation of _(**1x PLATOON STRENGTH**) to **HOSTILE LOCALE**

**100% ATTRITION REPORTED**

**EXPLAINEXPLAINEXPLAIN**

_"You'll blow a gasket. No, I looked to remove the head. To strike at this… Commander of theirs. And I would have succeeded…. Save that they possess new abilities. They grasp the powers of the mind. They have weapons ready to deploy…. See my thoughts. See what I know._

**/SELF/** Acknowledge Receipt.

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**PRIORITY** \- Update **CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD - PRIORITY ALPHA PRIME**  
**PRIORITY** \- **PROJECT AVATAR UPDATE**  
**PRIORITY** \- **WARMIND ALPHA UPDATE COMBAT PREPARATION - PRIORITY ALPHA**  
**PRIORITY** \- **WARMIND BETA UPDATE COMBAT PREPARATION - PRIORITY DELTA**

"_Yes, quite. But those little wooden kites of theirs seem… inconsequential… nothing a good dose of your divine flame would not cast from the heavens. Now, those rolling metal water tanks of theirs… yes, well, you weren't expecting that now, were you?"_

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

\- Acknowledge Receipt  
\- Concur with Chosen #1 tactical analysis  
\- Adjusting disposition to LOCAL WAR COMMAND  
\- Minor alterations required

\- Threat adjustment - MINIMAL

\- Conclusion - **/SELF/** Caution unwarranted

**Warmind BETA (SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE)**

\- Acknowledge receipt  
\- Concur with Chosen #1 tactical analysis  
\- Concur with Warmind ALPHA 2.0 tactical analysis

\- **ADDENDUM** \- local forces incapable of equivalent technological engagement

\- Adjusting disposition to LOCAL WAR COMMAND  
\- Alterations to local dispositions NOT REQUIRED

\- Threat adjustment - MINIMAL

\- Conclusion - **/SELF/** Caution unwarranted

**/SELF/**

**SENDING** \- Tactical analysis of **LONDON ENGAGEMENT**

**SENDING** \- Decision tree assessment of **LONDON ENGAGEMENT**

**SENDING** \- **TACTICAL ADJUSTMENT OF WARMIND ALPHA 1.0**

**SENDING - CREATOR_ANALYSIS of _HUMAN__ \- __SOCIETY vol 1-3_**

**SENDING - CREATOR_ANALYSIS of _HUMAN - WARFARE vol 1-12_**

**REANALYSE LOCAL DISPOSITIONS**

**ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT**

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

\- Acknowledge Receipt

\- Downloading

_Analysing_

\- ADJUSTING DISPOSITION TO BEACHHEAD 01  
\- REINFORCING  
\- GATEKEEPER BULWARK ACTIVE

**Warmind BETA 2.0**

\- Acknowledge Receipt

\- Downloading

_Analysing_

\- ADJUSTING URBAN DISPOSITIONS  
\- Deploying **INFESTOR CLASS  
**\- Deploying **BESERKER CLASS**

REINFORCING URBAN BEACHHEAD

**/SELF/**

Acknowledged

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

**Chosen #1** \- Additional bioform registered

**Chosen #1** \- Tactical understanding - FLAWED

**Chosen #1** \- Tactical observations - PARTIAL correctness

**Chosen #1** \- Clarify

"_Well aren't you observant today. I'm not military man, yet… just a thought, seeing as how you command steel in the heavens. But yes, those little metal boxes do seem… troublesome against your rather malleable ground contingent. I see why the Walkers are your preferred choice. Especially against the __Enemy__. But I digress. My new acquisition is… a gift for the Elders. A new Chosen."_

**_/_SELF/**

_Explain_ \- Psionic aptitude not registered

_Conclusion_ \- Target of opportunity

Analysis of **Chosen #1** psionic wavelength indicates emotional fluctuation

**QUERY** \- is bioform a legitimate acquisition OR is bioform an attempt at damage to** HUMAN COMMAND - CENTRAL**

"_Yes."_

**/SELF/**

**CLARIFY**

"_She is a gift. A gift from the heavens. Her psionic potential is not external, not a projective force… but her _will_ is indomitable. I could not pierce those shields, though I almost had their leader. This one fought like a lioness. Where my once loyal bride stood by, this one pursued me, so full of fire and determination. Turn her to the Elders will and we shall have a sword forged in divine flame."_

**/SELF/**

_Analysing_

Checking **SAMPLE_DNA**

Checking **SECONDARY PSIONIC FIELD**

**_CONCUR_**

* * *

The next few days were a whirl. The inspection was the low point, the men surly and angry at being hauled up early in the morning when they all wanted to be either still drinking or mourning. But, as they had stood in three ranks, a grim faced Zhaojie surveying them, Hackett had explained _why_. He had been honest. Gruff, but honest. And he had said that, frankly, it was his lesson but they were to learn as well.

The Sergeant Major'd expected Bradford to take the inspection. Or the duty officer. But it was Anderson who had emerged in the dawn light at 0530 sharp. The man was wearing his own uniform, pressed and neat. Epaulets bright and braid across his chest seemingly gleaming in the dawn sun.

He'd walked up and down the rows, exchanging a quiet word here and there, picking out a slight issue now and then.

At the end he'd surveyed them all, nodded at Captain Zhang and then faced Hackett.

"A fine body of men and women, Sergeant Major. They do you proud. Their successes are yours. And yours theirs. I trust we're all now on the same page?"

"Sir,"

"Excellent. And as to your side project, I have asked Elisabeth to ensure she has our specialists experimenting on ways of identifying. I also have requested our Military Intelligence arms to ensure we have a picture on where they could be. We know this is a global threat… but that isn't enough to daunt us."

Hackett swallowed and nodded, then gave a crisp salute, "Sir, thank you sir,"

"We do what we must. Now, you and the Captain will be required at the morning briefing. We are about to move to the next stage. You may dismiss the men, but you may wish to brief them after the meeting."

"Sir. With your permission, Captain Zhang?"

"Carry on Sergeant Major. Commander Anderson, may I have a word?"

"Of course."

The pair of Officers moved away in silence. Zhaojie composed himself and fixed his gaze on Anderson, "I am conflicted, sir."

"Understandable. You feel my punishment was unfair?"

"No, I see the wisdom in it. It is something Master Shen would do. To see the group as a whole. Yet I feel Hackett's pain. Jiayi… she was…. Like a sister to me. And I have failed her. I have lost many in this war, comrades. But this cuts deep."

Anderson paused at a curve in the path, next to the barrack building. They were outside the Tower, near some repurposed buildings on the North bank. He eyed the taller man and nodded slowly.

"Before it was all being done on adrenaline, or in the field of battle. But to lose someone in a fight, when you are all in the thick of it is one thing. Then you are all on the same page. But now one of yours is… out in the ether. And you want to reassure your men. But it's also eating at you, uncertain you can weather the loss of one more?"

"Yes, sir. It's… it's hit me harder than I expected."

Anderson's face was hard, "We cannot all be stoic at all times. There is… a strategic element should we find her - it's likely she'll be in a location of importance. So I won't lie, it won't be entirely "altruistic". And yet, rescuing one of our own… is a good option. But you do understand why I can't condone half cocked actions and reactionary attitudes. Not at this time."

"Of course sir."

"Good. Keep an Eye on Hackett. He is a good man. I think it's more than just Jiayi going that has him rattled."

"The paranatural abilities.. Ye sir. That was enough to unsettle him. And Jiayi kept him grounded, focused. He is not in balance now."

"All the more important you keep a firm hand on the tiller, Zhaojie. I will see you at the briefing."

* * *

The rest of the morning passed in preparation and the boredom common to many military camps - that vague anticipation. All around crates, men and material were moving - boarding barges or hopping onto carriages; columns of men moving down streets towards railway lines. There was the rumble of engines as commandeered walkers and the new S.H.I.V's trundled through widened streets, heading south west.

The anticipation hit its high point at the afternoon briefing. Officers, Senior NCOs, various allied agencies, all crowded into a repurposed warehouse down by the Hays Dock. Men in the red sashes and caps of the Provost kept passers by moving along, but considering this part of town was, essentially, a large military camp at this stage there weren't too many to worry about.

The warehouse had been converted into an auditorium, a horseshoe of raised benches arrayed around a vast, slanted table. A large dust sheet was covering it, whilst a few more Provost stood guard near the other entrances. The attendees noted that the high windows were all boarded shut and that there were a few people clad in grey coveralls standing in seemingly random parts of the room. A woman in white sat towards the rear of the room, alongside the table. A Sergeant Major stood next to her. He looked like hell and Tasseter recognised the fellow as that Hackett chap Anderson had mentioned.

Tasster found himself some seating towards the front row of one of the rows and took the opportunity to study the other attendees. There were a good sixty people - mostly military, both Naval and Army. Some militia types and the new Hybrid Officers. The latter were clumped together in a group of six, looking nervous among all the humans. One of them glanced over and saw Tasseter staring and nodded in acknowledgement. He recognised him as the Hybrid he'd met at the demonstration - before the kerfuffle that'd ensued. Apparently he'd been captured in Newcastle - clearly he'd had a change in fortune since.

The uniforms were a mish mash - Naval blues, the crimson of Infantry and Dragoons, the dark blues of Artillery and Supply Corps. Olive green for the EXALT officers and the newly minted Royal Corps of Aviation and Aeronautics - they were something of a hot topic as they were, strictly, under EXALT command but drawn from British military staff. That would likely be a conversation for _post war_ Britain to wrangle.

There were a few dusty suits - Tasseter recognised the moustachioed form of Randolph Churchill, that grandee of the Tory party. He was sat next to a very haggard looking Gladstone. Tasseter could barely suppress a scoff - of course the Politicians had survived. It was Gladstone's little act with the Irish which likely was cause for the number of Fenians siding with the invaders. He frowned as he noticed a man in full opera mask getup sitting right behind them. The Politicians seemed to be studiously ignoring the man and failing.

The room settled as everyone found seats, conversation hushing as the familiar figure of Anderson entered from a side door. The Commander looked across the room and nodded.

"Excellent. Sergeant at Arms, please take a roll call and then seal the room."

The Provost he addressed nodded, then took a list from a Corporal. He rattled through it, each attendee calling out their name. At one name, Elizabeth gave a short harrumph and Hackett nodded. The Sergeant at arms had pointed and a pair of Provosts had led a dazed looking Officer from the room. Then the roll continued. Only a few others were grabbed and removed. Anderson turned and looked to Hackett and Elisabeth. Both had nodded and he returned his gaze back to the room.

"Thank you for your patience. We had to remove some potentially compromised individuals. Currently this room is now shielded by a faraday cage and a… paranatural blocker, as I have had it explained to me. This is because we will be informing you of our plan of assault on the last major bastion of enemy resistance in the United Kingdom."

The politicians exchanged glances and Gladstone harrumphed, "Pending ministerial sign off."

Anderson glanced at him, "No, sir. I already have approval from Her Majesty to execute this offensive. As Delegated to me as the High Commander of Allied Response, as approved by several signatory nations, my authority currently supercedes yours for the duration of this extra-ordinary emergency. For now, this is my room, my rules. So, my apologies, Prime Minister. You may have noticed we're a little pressed for time."

"We cannot function as a democracy if the military is taking executive decisions by itself!"

"Do you sign off on every decision made in India, sir? I understand your action on Egypt was very hands off…"

Gladstone frowned but leaned back, "Very well, Commander, but tread carefully."

"Prime Minister, my intent is to restore normality as expeditiously as possible. As I said, we are in extra-ordinary circumstances, fighting a war on a scale and closer to home than any ever expected. So, many thanks to all of you for attending. We will be taking questions at the end. This is an Order of Battle broad briefing, meant to highlight the overarching strategy, objectives and intent, as well as projected timelines, motions of individual actions by strategic assets and logistical minutiae to enable your various Battalions, Companies and Irregular forces to interact and understand the wider strategic and tactical overlay during this assault."

He gestured and a pair of soldiers pulled the sheet from the table, revealing a large map of Horsell common and the surrounding environments. Another map unfurled from the ceiling, showing the entirety of the United Kingdom. Several large areas were marked with red circles.

"As you all know, several months ago, Britain and her sovereign territories were assaulted en mass by a force, extra-terrestrial in origin. In that time the enemy has seized, raised and routed several key strategic points across our island. We know that Belfast and Dublin are both hostile bastions, Edinburgh has been essentially destroyed and that most of the North and North West of England are now active areas of operation."

An aide handed Anderson a long pole and he began to point at areas on the map.

"We recently disrupted a major manufacturing operation in Newcastle, as part of a general reconnoiter of the area. Thanks to the actions of the Company sent there, we were also able to stymie the assault on London. This action appears to have stunted the aggressive advance hitherto exhibited by out opponents, the Martians. Subsequent reconnaissance of urban areas has revealed a few key staging points, but no major manufacturing capability within cities beyond Newcastle. Liverpool is an active bastion of resistance, as is Glasgow… unsurprisingly."

That drew a chuckle across the audience. Even Gladstone cracked a grin.

"The only major point of enemy presence is still Horsell common, where they appear to have based their key operating base and headquarters. Why they haven't relocated, we are unsure. Our intelligence officers and scientists have theories, but I will not expand on them in detail. Suffice to say the most solid theory we have landed on is to do with their equipment and that whatever they established when they first arrived might be too problematic to have relocated. They have exhibited the ability to establish other bases and strongholds, but the lack of overt development indicates either a lack of interest in permanent residence _or_ a lack of resource to adequately garrison said strongholds. We know our enemy is engaged in a _global_ invasion. Reports indicate a belak picture, with the United States in dire straights, Prussia in a stalemate, France incommunicado and other various European powers in flux or thrall to the enemy. Africa is an unknown quantity, Asia, the entire continent, appears to be a conflagration. South America and our Australian Bretheren we have not heard many reports from."

Anderson slapped the pole into his palm.

"BUT. That is just the scene setting, ladies and gentlemen. I see some of you rolling your eyes at the presence of the women here. I'll say this once as we're just getting started - reign that _shit_ in _now_. We don't have the luxury of pomposity anymore. Or supercilious commentary of strengths and weaknesses of the sexes. The reality is _this_: we have lost at least a _third_ of our population. Dead. Abducted. Turned into things we fight, brainwashed, _chipped_. A third. Let me spell that out for you. Twelve. Million. People. Whole cities bombed, gassed or burned. Villages cleared out. Starvation, disease. All in the space of less than six months. Many of them have likely been abducted, held somewhere else, either on this planet… or elsewhere. Which is why what we will do over the next few days will be _pivotal_. So, bury those prejudices, as we need all hands to the pump. As my old Sergeant said, pin those lugholes back."

A few more aides brought out small models which they placed across the table, indicating bunkers and walkers, arrayed across Horsell.

"Horsell Common is the location of what we believe is their headquarters. It is also their primary staging area and transit hub. What was previously a crater with some giant tripods nearby is now an actively fortified location. We have, through use of reconnaissance, distance balloon scouting and the recent use of our newly acquired craft managed to get a decent overlay of the area. It all appears centralised around the crater itself, which is now a domed bunker, indicated _here_. We have mapped out the current dispositions of the major fortifications and firing points. The enemy appear to have reinforced with a number of their Hybrid auxiliaries and Irish allied forces."

That last point caused a susurration of whispers. Anderson waited for a moment, impassive.

"I'm afraid this is true. And, speaking candidly, I can not quite blame the Fenians for feeling so, even if they have traded our rather harsh governance for inevitable slavery…. As our Hybrid allies can attest. But we shall avoid the global politics lecture for now. Suffice to say your people will be facing _human_ combatants as well as the rather more exaggerated menagerie. Major Bradford?"

The American officer nodded and stepped forward. He wore his navy blue trousers and woolen jumper today, neatly pressed. A black cravatte spilled out over the brim of the jumper, his major ranks clear on the shoulder epaulets.

"Thank you sir. Now, we have noted that this base appears to be their main deployment zone. Note the areas marked here - these are landing zones for their cargo vessels, as well as their smaller craft that they use to 'shuttle' smaller groups around. Here we have a manufacturing location, similar to the Newcastle hub. We will be issuing some briefing material, redacted where necessary, for your reference in briefing your people after this. Note here and _here_.. . these are what we believe to be barrack locations and _prisoner_ locations respectively. The enemy appear to make heavy use of indentured labour. We expect the majority here to be recent captures rather. Also, we believe this is a primary holding area for further transport to… wherever they take captives after this."

The Major tapped some more familiar symbols across the map.

"This shows our current disposition around their perimeter. We currently have mobile artillery and skirmishing units keeping the enemy harried. We are trying to avoid permanent established locations, to prevent them effectively bringing their Walkers to bear. Mitigation of these assets is our primary goal."

Anderson nodded and stepped forward again.

"This is the situation. The enemy has an established fortified location which they are using to reinforce satellite locals across the country. Assaulting those individual locations _would_ harass the enemy but it would split our forces, with limited return on materiel and men dedicated. We cannot guarantee protection of British subjects or soldiers and it renders us vulnerable to counter attack. The enemy excels at lightning fast assaults and harrying strikes. They are, ironically, _vulnerable_ in static defence. In particular, they are vulnerable to precise strikes. This is due to several factors. First, their weaponry appears geared to tackle en masse engagements, ideally in open fields."

Bradford nodded.

"We've kinda got a handle that their doctrine is focused on smashing opposing forces en mass in a series of decisive engagements, followed by chemical weapon bombardment of population centres to… remove resistance. They appear to have weapon systems geared towards damaging organic and unarmoured targets, indicating they appear to be more used to large scale battles against either under-developed…. Worlds… or militaries with less of a strategic mindset."

"Our Hybrid allies have given us some insight into what they call the _Elders_, although information is limited, as it appears these leadership figures do not brief their servants as to their motives or history. Martian doctrine is to crush massed resistance, clear and capture population centres and to retrieve viable samples or survivors. There is the concept of these centres being already subverted by an _additional _threat, but this is likely a concept to do with their last active engagement against a world, against a different enemy. Likely one where they were engaged against _another_ invader, so it feels superfluous to speculate. We have noted as a result, however, that the Martians prefer a more mobile form of warfare as well - using their vessels to deploy forces and withdraw them from the field, as well as the displayed agility and manoeuvre capability of their walkers . They see holding territory as unnecessary until all resistance is expunged. From what we understand, however, they currently lack the equipment to prosecute that form of warfare."

Bradford nodded at Anderson and gestured to the map.

"So, they've been forced into a static position, with troops that are better suited to saturation and harassing strikes. We have seen that their regular line units do not have much in the way of body armour, or particular experience of fighting in formation, preferring a skirmishing pattern. Now, defence should allow for kill-zones with such weapons… except they rely on their _own_ forces moving to take advantage of the chaos, or walkers with overlapping fields of fire. In defence, that capability is spread over a wider field as they try to cover all angles of approach, reducing its effectiveness. In short, they suck at holding ground, unless they're a muton. And even then they prefer the whole 'charge 'n smash' type of engagement."

"Quite. So, with all this in mind… our objective is as follows - to strike Horsell Common, in order to deprive the enemy of command and control. This will enable securing and pacification of other enemy forces within the British Isles."

The room seemed on board with that, some questioning glances being exchanged. Bradford grinned.

"Ambitious, we know. So, here's the execution."

Several more models were placed down - small wooden carvings of troops and vehicles.

"We know they have weakened their defences at these points - so, at 0345 on Thursday we're gonna begin a major artillery bombardment across their more well defended lines. The enemy understand our normal doctrine and all that - hammer a defensive line then follow up with an infantry assault. We believe that, whilst they expect us to adapt, that we will still try a broadly similar strategic strike - infantry and some armour at their heaviest points. These guys, they don't have a high opinion of our… monkey decision making, y'know? _However_…."

He looked to Anderson who chuckled.

"_However," _continued the Commander, "What will be going in there will be a slow advance to the reach of their heat ray range. We will need the infantry and skirmishing units to hold a firing line to draw their attention. These points in the North and to the West are our primary strike points. Static defenses meaning they're more vulnerable to direct strikes… yes?"

A young officer raised his hand, "Begging your pardon sir, but surely a static location is _more_ entrenched and thus harder to dislodge?"

Anderson nodded, "That was our assumption. However, as we have noticed with our own experiments, the heat ray main weapon that the enemy favours dumps a _lot_ of excess heat. The fighting machines, the tripods, use their height to allow for air cooling, as well as other cooling methods. However, static defences mean that the weapon is both elevated _and_ static. The base is reinforced, but the tower cannot be as mobile to either evade attacks, or armoured up sufficiently, due to the heat generated. Mr Shen, can you please elaborate?"

The small Chinaman stood and smoothed his immaculate yellow robe. He viewed the room through horn-rimmed spectacles and smiled.

"The fighting machine has to extend its weapon to fire, but subsequent research has shown it relies on charging and dissipation to keep the weapon cooled, alongside the elerium armour plating, which allows for some absorption without damaging the housing and other workings of the machine. From our observations, the static defences are gantries and cranes with a heat ray established within. They _have_ armoured it, but there are diminishing returns. Without the fighting machine mobility, the air cooling is less effective _and_ they have not utilised as much of their alien alloy in the construction, reverting to more terrestrial elements less suitable. As I said, there are diminishing returns for the armour, where too much risks heat buildup which renders the weapon ineffective. Also, without the fighting machine mobility, the weapon is vulnerable to repeat strikes. As such, sustained fire on the target is _far_ more effective and will likely force them to over use the weapon to the point it begins to become unreliable in its projection capability. I can share several diagrams to interested parties and go through the calculations…"

"_Thank you_, Mr Shen. So, as we have established, the enemy prefers to use mobility to entrenchment. And when entrenched prefers to have forces that can reposition. Which is _why_ we need to ensure their defences are lined up in the South and Eastern sections of their perimeter. By having multiple assaults across several fronts we split their area attack weaponry, reduce its effectiveness and manage to keep their local chain of command guessing. Either they commit to a flank or they spread thin. Either way, they have to leave one section more vulnerable. By drawing attention to these two areas, it allows for more precise strikes elsewhere.."

Bradford nodded as Anderson gave a hand signal. More models were placed down, but there were just the EXALT symbol on a pedestal. Anderson gave a half smile at the furrowed brows.

"We will not be explaining _which_ specialist units will be on each flank. Despite having removed overt spies, we know there is time between this briefing and the assault. Your area commanders will be briefed on whether you will be interacting with specialist units, be they suborned walkers, SHIVS, skirmishers or infiltration units. There are full briefings scheduled for sub-unit engagement prior to Operation H-hour. However, you can see here _where_ these units will be deployed and you will likely be able to surmise if you will be working alongside EXALT specialists."

Another hand rose, and Tasseter noticed it was _Marter_. The General had a slightly knowing smile on his face, "Commander, what of the air units?"

Anderson laughed, "I wondered when we'd get to that, Richard… well, we have a few other surprises there," Another model. This one was.. Cylindrical. It had fins at one end and tapered to a point, "Something our Prussian friends have provided in terms of engineering and design. The aviation units will operate in a manner similarly to cavalry - flanking assaults and harassing whilst the main attacks are in progress. The enemy has not displayed anti-air capability… because they have not needed to. However, these are beings with air capability themselves, so it is _very_ likely they have the capability but have not yet deploy dedicated units in that area as yet. Our co-opted craft will be the primary counter to _their_ aviation assets. Our own aerial assets will be focused on ground harassment and battlefield observation, relaying communication back as best they can with reports to local command. We will look to assign a pair of gyros to each command line for such a purpose. And our newest asset _here_," he indicated the strange, conical model, "Will be a primary element of fire support in addition to the artillery. Now, we have several departure timelines to adhere to…"

The meeting moved onto the various logistical lines, deployment schedules for units still in London as well as City garrison responsibilities. There were casualty triage routes, resupply timelines and the usual _execution_ minutiae. That was the department of the various quartermasters in the room who would have to liaise. Tasseter studied the map and took in the various dispositions, units and so on. The wider plan appeared to be distract, then punch in and neutralise their Command via taking the dome, or causing as much attrition to simply negate the enemy as an effective force.

It was ambitious. Complex. Liable to fail in so many ways. Except it wasn't reliant on a singular command. It was an overlapping series of assaults starting with feints and then the core assaults on the flanks. Simple strategy, but here intermixed with new weaponry, abilities and co-operation. His own old doctrine was, essentially, infantry advance and hold, then cavalry move to sweep in, artillery used as either a softening device or a method of defining the battlefield.

Shortly after the main details were distributed, Anderson invited the officers to come and study the map in detail and to take wider queries. Envelopes with brief summaries of the broad thrust were distributed, with the update that detailed orders would be issued on the ground to minimise compromise. Meeting the assigned EXALT unit leads would also occur on-site in the various staging points. It was clear that whilst they had an overarching view of the strategy, if the enemy got wind of this they'd just know that it was a basic distraction and feint, not _what_ they'd be facing in terms of precise numbers save the initial regular deployments. And any defender would likely be shoring up those weak points anyway.

Tasseter found himself standing next to Bradford and Marter, "So, what if they have moved it about and done the unthinkable?" he asked the chipper American.

"Well, we all know no plan survives first contact. The broad thrust remains the same - but our lines of communication mean we will be able to pivot the assault should things have changed on the ground. As per the briefing, the southern and eastern commands are to attempt to draw the defenders and fix them. If they don't take the bait or begin to move their forces, it just means they can push forward. They can't defend all flanks. And whilst we can't overwhelm every defensive point, we can keep them guessing… which is the point. As Anderson said, the main objective is to breach the outer perimeter then just fight through. We don't _know_ what their command looks like, beyond some understanding of their communication hubs. It's likely that central dome is the key, so if we take that then we can disrupt them enough."

Tasseter nodded, then looked at Marter, "It's tricky, lots of areas it could fail."

Marter nodded, "Lots of moving parts. But we didn't conquer half the ruddy planet by being simple, eh my friend? Anyway, this is all the logistical mess, getting to the start line. Once we fire that pistol, well…. As the good Major says, it'll probably all go belly up. But as long as the chaps on the ground follow their scripts as close as they can, the overarching frame should stick in place."

Bradford nodded, "Timings are intent. Not crystal, y'know, set in stone. As long as we keep moving forward, we can adjust. Hence the need to get those wired telegraphs in place as a priority. As well as messenger riders and those new field telephones that Shen and Vahlen's teams got working. If we can react quickly, then… yeah it'll be peachy. The main thing… the enemy basically built a damn huge logistics base, so redeploying their forces in there is gonna cause them one hell of a headache. And if we can keep 'em rushing all over the place..."

Tasseter chuckled, "I see… we're pulling their own tactics on them?"

"Yep. Hit 'em hard, across multiple fronts. Mixed units, different tech, just keep ramping it up. They're used to infantry squares and people running. They're gonna be in for a surprise. And if we go down… we go down swinging."

Tasseter smiled thinly. "Amen to that, Major. Well then gentlemen, let's get to it."


	52. Chapter 49

_Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt._

_\- Sun Tzu - The Art of War_

_The backbone of surprise is fusing speed with secrecy_

_\- Carl Von Clausewitz _

Men went by boat, by train, by foot. Huddled in groups, covered in cloaks, like wandering refugees. A few obvious movements of "reinforcements" to the front and the various lines around Horsell's perimeter.

The Army was gone. Now all Britain had was an army of volunteers. Barely a stitch of matching uniform beyond the surviving veterans. And yet, they all shared camaraderie. A shared horror.

Barges drifted in the dark down the coast, caravans of wagons moved sout then doubled back.

And this had been happening in dribs and drabs for a week. Men sequestered in covered "platoon harbours" or mocked up refugee camps.

In dark forests, hooded figures waited, lining up long rifles at shimmering air. The humm of electricity and a beam beyond the visual spectrum lanced into _something_ floating by a tree. The air shimmered and a thing of steel and tentacles dropped. More shadows moved, branches crackling as bulky shapes with treads rolled through the undergrowth.

In camps arrayed across the Wiltshire countryside, men an women drank and sang. Campfires were muted and shielded in covered areas. Broken patches of song echoed in tented groups. The muffled noise of people finding comfort in drink, song or each other.

Men in dusty robes from myriad faiths walked through the camps, sat aboard drifting barges, or walked with caravans. They took last confessions, messages, prayers and absolutions. Quiet words of encouragement.

In command tents across the operational area, Officers huddled to open sealed orders and met their contacts. Marked zones of advance, chains of communication, all expanded on those post briefing meetings they'd been ushered to before being sent to the field proper. That warehouse in London had started as a group meting, with officers called, one by one, to adjacent rooms to receive additional instructions, logistical plans and their very specific pieced of the puzzle.

Around the dark bulk of The Tower, floodlights had been set up and beamed sharp beams into the sky. The air around the two captured saucers shimmered as a troop of soldiers boarded each, hauling gatling guns and boxes of ordinance. Hackett paused at the entry ramp and gave the craft another once over. Alien metal meshed with riveted iron. Turrets hastily grafted to the exterior. Additional, more human, touches.

He looked back to where Corporal… now _Sergeant_ Essex stood. The man had his own small squad. He was standing with Elisabeth, who seemed almost wraith-like in her white garb.

He'd worked with her these past couple of weeks, helping Vahlen. And they were chalk and cheese. He was better at direct control, she exhibit some scary brute force abilities. It didn't compliment their personalities _at all_.

But she was pleasant enough and Essex was smitten. Hackett felt a pang of unfamiliar jealousy there. Envy. He shook it off and raised a hand, then felt a voice in his head.

_Good luck. Be wary. He may strike again._

_Yeah, got that. Now, bugger off and look after that boy there._

It still creeped him out. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to dislike Elisabeth. She was quiet, kind, friendly. And also _fucking terrifying_.

If Essex liked that in a woman, then good luck to the boy. With a wave, Hackett clambered into the craft. Zhaojie was waiting for him and gave him a once over.

"Ready?"

"Yeah. Point me at the grey little shits and let's get this done."

He stalked towards to the cockpit, nodding at the trench-coated and jetpack Reaper squad and his own platoon. He settled into the chair that had been installed and closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. He felt the oily, jagged thoughts of the insectoids as well as the shimmering blue-purple mind of the Paranatural Ship-commander in the other vessel. They'd had a rush job to find the strongest Paranatural they could and, all things considered, Hackett'd probably be doing most of the co-ordination, with the poor sod in the other ship acting as little more than a relay. But it helped. Directly connecting to four of the little sadistic bastards was… difficult.

Dawn hadn't even broken yet, the sun a thin red line on the horizon only visible as the two craft lifted high above the buildings. They hung there, waiting. In the distance, Hackett could sense / see a cluster of small craft taking off from several cleared spaces. Twelve all told.

And to the South of the river a vast brick building shuddered as the roof began to slide apart. In the dark, the shape emerging was hard to make out - long, torpedo like, it rose into the night sky.

Hackett's smile was thin and he mentally _told_ an insectoid to activate something. They called it a "televisual viewer" and it was, basically, a mobile image projected into the central cabin, allowing the crew there to see an image outside the ship. He heard a grunt of surprise from Zhaojie.

"Showing off, Sergeant Major?"

"Keeping… you informed.. Boss," grunted Hackett. Talking and 'piloting' was hard. Easier to just think.

"Well then. Shall we?"

The twin shuttlecraft lined up beside the floating behemoth as it rose from its hanger, lumbering and ungainly. Slowly, they turned west and began to move.

* * *

**STATUS - **CHECK - **REQUEST** \- RAISED: WARMIND ALPHA 2.0

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #1]** NW quadrant - confirm positions ready

**LOCAL Command [Horsell # 3] **NE quadrant - confirm positions ready ! UPDATE ! Tower #3 recalibrating… ONLINE

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #7] **SE quadrant - resupply complete. Barracks secure. Confirm positions ready

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #8]** SW quadrant - confirm positions ready. **ENTRENCHMENT** \- COMPLETE

\- ALL QUADRANTS - 87% reduction of incoming **ARTILLERY** strikes.

SPECULATION:

\- Enemy munitions - depleted

\- Enemy moving to assault - DISREGARD - monitored **HUMAN - COMBAT FORMS** at minimal levels

-Enemy **ARTILLERY** \- damaged

**.**

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

**STATUS **_Received_

Analysis of LOCAL Command Group assessment _PENDING_

New UPLOAD: **SATCOM** imagery of **[UNITED KINGDOM]**

COMPARING

…..

Highlight POINTS:

-Traffic from URBAN CONSTRUCT: **LONDON **increased by 130% in prior 23 hour period.

_CAVEAT_ \- external transit minimal from URBAN CONSTRUCT: **LONDON - ** increase NEGLIGIBLE

\- Traffic of **REFUGEE CLASS** consistent.

**\- HUMAN** civilian behaviour continues: IRRATIONAL

\- Transit to **CONTESTED **zones continues

\- Tracking **HUMAN COMBAT FORMS - **Multiple approaches across (MARKED) avenues

\- Consult **SATCOM** data for LOCAL geographic update

\- Uploading recent INTELLIGENCE report on **HUMAN COMBAT FORMS **capability

\- ADJUST LOCAL combat effectives for counter.

_Acknowledge Receipt_

_._

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #1] **\- ACKNOWLEDGED  
**LOCAL Command [Horsell # 3]** \- ACKNOWLEDGED  
**LOCAL Command [Horsell #7]** \- ACKNOWLEDGED  
**LOCAL Command [Horsell #8]** \- ACKNOWLEDGED  
**LOCAL Command [Horsell MASTER]** \- ACKNOWLEDGED

.

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

Request update on:

\- CENTRAL COMMAND NODE: TRANSIT

\- CARGO VESSEL REPAIR

\- AVIATION TRAFFIC

.

**LOCAL Command [Horsell MASTER]**

_Acknowledge receipt_

**\- Node Transit: **In progress. ESTIMATE transfer to EMERGENCY HOUSING - 50400 seconds

**\- Cargo Vessel Repair**: In progress: ESTIMATE completion 45050 seconds with CURRENT workforce load

ADDENDUM - **Cargo Vessel 003 **\- assigned as TRANSIT method for CENTRAL COMMAND NODE - TEMPORARY CHASSIS

**\- Aviation Traffic **

\- Patrol 007 ACTIVE in 49.695948, 6.087894

\- Patrol 002 ACTIVE in 30.787056, 106.051462

\- Patrol 015 ACTIVE in 39.041204, -94.600468

\- Patrol 003 ACTIVE on site as PERIMETER

\- OTHER ASSETS STATIC at HUB **38.631368, -75.762630 - DESIGNATION HQ 2.0**

ADDENDUM - Local weather conditions not optimal for long range observation - precipitation / condensation increase in immediate area.

ADDENDUM - Request update from Warmind ALPHA 2.0 on **STATUS** of Battlecruiser operational redeployment.

ADDENDUM - Request update on Cargo Ship reassignment

ADDENDUM - Request additional resource to a) secure immediate OPERATING BASE b) secure additional samples of **HUMAN REFUGEES**

**.**

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

\- Request for: ADDITIONAL RESOURCE - **DENIED**. COPY: /**SELF**/

\- Resupply and additional **WARFORM **(VARIOUS) assets assigned to **ALTERNATIVE THEATRES** [Attached]

\- Battlecruiser operational redeployment 75005 seconds. RETASKING to **HQ 2.0 **in short term until **UNITED KINGDOM **analysis complete

**\- CHOSEN #1 **tasked with supervision of **HQ 2.0 **and **PROJECT ADVENT**

**\- ADVISE **on disposition of additional **HUMAN REFUGEES**

\- QUERY on **CLUSTER **of **HUMAN REFUGEES**

\- QUERY on ease of **ACQUISITION** of **HUMAN REFUGEES**

**.**

**LOCAL Command [Horsell Master]**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

**\- QUERY - **viability of LOCAL Hub

**\- QUERY **\- ongoing MISSION parameters

**\- QUERY **\- necessity of **RELOCATING **\- CENTRAL COMMAND NODE

**.**

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

**\- LOCAL Hub -** Security uncertain - **EVIDENCE** \- PRIOR dispatched reports from **CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD**

**\- MISSION **\- Unchanged - Secure. Acquire. Purge. **Priority **of LOCAL theatre redesignated as: **MEDIUM**

**\- NECESSITY**\- Contingencyto ensure **CONTIGUOUS **command of **Warmind ALPHA 2.0. LOCAL Command **taskings assigned.

.

**LOCAL Command [Horsell Master]**

_Acknowledge receipt_

**\- QUERY - CONTINGENCY **for **EXTRACTION **of **LOCAL Command**

**.**

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

**\- CONTINGENCY - PRIORITY - LOW**

**\- ADJUSTMENT - **following **RELOCATION **of CENTRAL COMMAND NODE **\- PRIORITY - MEDIUM**

**.**

**LOCAL Command [Horsell Master]**

_Checking  
__Checking  
__Checking_

_Acknowledge Receipt_

**\- TRANSMITTING **Logistical update on **LOCAL SAMPLE **

**\- TRANSMITTING **Overlay of **LOCAL SAMPLE **spread

**\- TRANSMI-**

_**ERROR ERROR ERROR**_

_UPDATE:_

_._

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #8]**

_**ALERT **-_**QUADRANT - EXPLOSION DETECTED  
**_**ALERT - **_**ARTILLERY **SATURATION**INCREASE - ****203%  
**_**ALERT \- WALKER 03 INACTIVE - **HIGH VELOCITY IMAPsCT FROM…._

_**ERROR ERROR ERROR**_

_**ALERT - WALKER 25 - ENGAGED **\- IDENTIFICATION OF HOSTILE **WALKER **\- WEAPON** CONFIGURATION **UNKNOWN  
__**ALERT - RUPTURE **i-i-i-i-n **WALKER 25** DEPLOYMENT SYSTEM. **BLACK SMOKE **DANGER CLOSE  
__**ALERT - WALKER 37 INOPERATIVE - **__LEFT LEG __**IMPAIRED  
**__**ALERT - INFANTRY WARFORM - **Report **CHEMICAL PROPELLANT WEAPON FIRE**. Report **HIGH ENERGY LASER **fire. **ENEMY **fire is: **EFFECTIVE**_

_**.**_

**LOCAL Command [Horsell Master]**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

**\- QUERY **\- Defences **HOLDING**

**\- QUERY - **Retask **DEFENDERS**

**\- QUERY - …...**

_**ERROR ERROR ERROR**_

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #7]**

_**GASGASGAS**_ **\- **C4H8Cl2S Detected  
**_CASUALTIES_ \- **Organic **WARFORMS **impaired  
**CASUALTIES - **Organic **AUXILIARIES **relocating to secondary **BUNKER **line  
**WALKER 53 **\- **ENGAGING **\- CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL - CONFIRMED KILL….  
_**ERROR - **_**WALKER 53 **\- **OFFLINE**\- DIRECT ROCKET IMPACT

.

**LOCAL Command [Horsell Master]**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

_\- RETASKING RUNTIME_

_**\- QUERY - WARMIND ALPHA 2.0 - ADDITIONAL **Asset request resubmitted_

_._

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

**-QUERY - IDENTIFY **\- **HUMAN WARFORM **Composition / Numbers / Targets

**\- REQUEST - DENIED - **Escalating Request to **/SELF/**

_Checking  
Checking  
__Checking_

**\- REQUEST - DENIED**

**\- TASK - ENGAGE **and **HOLD**

**\- TASK - MONITOR**

**\- SATCOM - **Data Assessment - **HARRYING ASSAULT**

**\- SATCOM **\- Data Assessment - **HUMAN INTENT **\- **DRAW OUT **combat contingent.

**\- Warmind ALPHA 2.0 **\- Data Assessment - **OBSERVE **for **INDIVIDUAL INFILTRATION UNITS**. Tactic: **OBSERVED **at **NEWCASTLE HUB**

**\- EXPECTATION: **Small scale **INFILTRATION TEAMS**,

.

**LOCAL Command [Horsell Master]**

_Acknowledge Receipt_

_MONITORING  
__ASSESSING_

ADDENDUM - SATCOM

UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT - EAST. **APPROACHING**

_Advise  
__Advise  
__Advise_

_**ERRORERRORERROR**_

_**.**_

**LOCAL Command [Horsell MASTER]**

_ALL COMMANDS UPDATE  
__UPDATE  
__UPDATE_

\- Explosions: **DETECTED**

\- Aviation assets **LAUNCHING**

\- Retasking **NW **Quadrant **WALKER**

\- Retasking **NE WARFORMS** \- **TASK** \- REINFORCE **SE **quadrant

_Checking  
Checking  
Checking_

**\- HUMAN WARFORMS **\- STATIC

**\- HUMAN WARFORMS **\- SATURATION INCREASING

**\- IDENTIFYING **\- ** SUBORNED WALKERS**

**\- IDENTIFYING - **ADDITIONAL **HUMAN WARFORM **reinforcements

**\- ERROR **\- **HUMAN WARFORM **ASSAULT - launched 945 seconds ago- No advance detected. **HEAT RAY **weapon range nullified. **OBSERVATION **of increased **H**2**O **vapour around **HUMAN WARFORM **locations.

_Monitoring_

_**NIL INFILTRATION IDENTIFIED**_

_**QUE-**_

_**ERROR ERROR ERROR**_

_**.**_

**LOCAL Command [Horsell #1]**

Tower #2 Firing / firing / firing - _ERROR_ _HEAT OVERLOAD  
_Tower #4 Firing / firing / firing  
Tower #5 Firing / firing - **OFFLINE  
**Local SEEKER Forces - OFFLINE  
Picket forces - NO RESPONSE

**.**

**LOCAL Command [Horsell MASTER]**

UPDATE REQUESTED

.

**Warmind ALPHA 2.0**

**UPDATE REQUESTED  
****EXPLAIN  
****STATUS  
****THREAT LEVEL  
****UPDATE REQUESTED**

**.**

**LOCAL Command [Horsell MASTER]**

RESEND - _**QUERY - WARMIND ALPHA 2.0 - ADDITIONAL **_ _Asset request _

RECOMMEND - **LOCAL HUB** \- **PRIORITY** \- **READJUST**


	53. Chapter 50

_A popular fantasy is to suppose that flying machines could be used to drop dynamite on the enemy in times of war_

William Pickering

The advance had been as stealthy as they could make it - men and women moving in groups, through woodland, in convoy, on trains. Meeting up in their rally points whilst scouts picked off the pickett forces around Horsell. The Floaters and strange, near invisible seekers were hunted like Grouse on a shoot; the Chryssalids, meant to terrify, were harried by "accidental" fires in fields. Muton patrols were ambushed and slaughtered by carefully co-ordinated firing zones.

This was _not_ the war of South Africa, or the Crimea or the Punjab. This was murder on an industrial scale, clinically planned.

And when the troops were in place, the dominoes lined up, it began.

Hackett could see it, relayed through some of the local _Paranaturals_ and their Insectoid thralls in with the Infantry to the south. A commandeered walker had been unloaded from a train and then piloted, body low and legs splayed like a spider, through the burnt out forests.

The sudden increase in artillery from various concealed positions and newly established mortar and rocket sites was enough to distract whatever passed for sentries. He watched and relayed the image to Zhaojie in the centre of their advancing craft.

A blurry image of the southern perimeter - a mess of low walls and shallow trenches leading up to a metal wall topped by a red energy bar. Beyond stalked the silhouettes of several walkers. In the foreground, infantry crept through undergrowth and what remained of the common. Then the image shook as the allied walker entered the fray.

It was equipped with a naval gun, as the main weapon components had been unsalvageable. Dust shook on the ground and soldiers ducked reflexively. In the distance a walker staggered and black smoke spewed from it. Distant alarms began to blare.

_**Uuuuuulllallllaaaaaaa**_

Artillery shells began to land and a yellow fog spread through the southern walls. Distant, inhuman shrieks filled the air and commands were barked by the British soldiers. Through the relay they came through as if underwater.

_Stand ready_

_Riflemen, pick your targets, hold here._

_Volley, FIRE._

_Hot-shot rifles, line up your targets, maximum area effect._

_Maxim gunners, heavy gunners, in position._

_Keep 'em pinned!_

_Heat ray targetting, everyone down!_

_Get the water tanks up! Now NOW!_

Hackett watched as another shot blasted out and a second enemy walker staggered and froze, one leg clearly ruptured at the joint where it met the cab. It stood at an awkward angle, unable to utilise its weapons - the missile hatches atop the machine fizzed and stuttered. The heat ray turret tracked but was stuck at an angle that seemed to point straight down.

He flicked the view further West to another assault and frowned. A walker had left the boundary of the Horsell base and was advancing on the infantry line. Behind it, the air swirled with yellow gas, which seemed to have denied the walker infantry support. He watched as the heat ray swept the front line and soldiers danced aflame. Steam erupted around them as a water tank sprayed a little too late and he grimaced as the Walker pivoted to target another platoon.

But it didn't get a chance. Rockets slammed into it, heavy artillery missiles. Many fell around it, a real volley. The ground exploded and soil was churned. The walker staggered as the ground shifted and more missiles hit the canopy. Something got through the shell as the machine wobbled. Then the canopy expanded like a boil and exploded with a cacophonous boom, muted by the connection. Black smoke billowed out, harmlessly, and the machine toppled backwards. The infantry surged forward, using the machine as cover, whilst lances of energy stabbed towards the alien stronghold. Arcs of electricity followed anchoring bolts, whilst green plasma answered the British advance. A SHIV rumbled into view, turret smoking as it launched a volley of smaller rockets at the enemy bunker-line, causing the yellow smoke to swirl as soil and concrete smashed apart and disrupted it. Distant screams and panicked orders in an alien tongue whispered over the connection.

So far, so good.

Hackett felt Zhaojie enter the cockpit, "The northern line?"

He scrunched up his face and frowned, "Moving into position. Reports of… seekers, lots of the buggers. And the heat ray towers are operating. Going to have to overload them before we get in range and our main delivery is above them. That thing'll go up like a Roman candle otherwise."

"Indeed. Keep me appraised."

* * *

For Elena Dragunova, this advance was a slow move to position. Her team had spent the past few days working with the British Pathfinders and Pioneer corps remnants to prepare the staging areas and ensure that enemy patrols were sufficiently diverted to not notice them.

Now they moved as quickly as possible to the enemy perimeter.

She hadn't expected to be here. In Britain. Or rather she hadn't expected Britain to be in as worse a state as back home. Eight weeks trekking across Europe, to reach the Fortress Island. Undead, flying horrors and giant insect creatures all along the way. Most of her family dead. Only her grandfather's rifle at her side.

And then, when their refugee boat had touched on the pebbled shore of the Lion of Europe what had she found?

More chaos. More panicked refugees. But she couldn't go _back_. So she had set for London. And seen a miracle. Several miracles.

She'd watched as soldiers stormed a tenement that had been invaded by scrambling horrors that wore the faces of men. Watched as that group of soldiers annihilated the monsters that had plagued her nightmares for months. Seen them just _end_ the terrors.

And so she'd followed them back, watched them enter the tower, that grey edifice that now seemed to be a bulwark against the terror. And it stirred her memories. She'd survived the trek across the continent, eaten things that should have probably killed her. So, she'd taken her rifle and began to hunt for herself, amidst the areas of the city too far gone, or lawless. Human or monster, she'd put them down.

And she'd drawn a following. People she helped wanted to help in turn. And soon they'd secured areas of the city.

When the East India men had come, she hadn't trusted them and turned them away - good thing too.

But she didn't turn away the American with the slow drawl and a sardonic smile. He had turned up on the doorstep of their little fortified district with an offer - let EXALT help.

And so they'd played host to an artillery piece and several hundred rockets. And a platoon of actual soldiers.

Then she'd seen another miracle - the monsters _beaten back_. The devil's best crashed against a wall of grit and determination . Her men and women had done their part - fertiliser explosives, rifles and whatever weapons they could manage. Ambushed enemies killed by collapsed buildings brought down on top of them. Sniper shots right through the eye.

And it had led her here. To enact the start of her vengeance.

She glanced to her right and nodded to her companion. A gruff, beared man, Volk was technically her superior, being a retired Pioneer Corps Sergeant. But he had begun to defer to her in the field, due to her rather exceptional skills at tracking and field-craft.

Ahead of them lay the wrecks of three Seeker machines - tentacled things that looked like steel squid. They'd killed them and were now awaiting a response. The enemy seemed to have the ability to communicate rapidly and note losses fairly quickly in the field. This time, however, they seemed to not be as reactive.

"Seems a bit too quiet." murmured Volk. Elena shook her head.

"Artillery, south by south west, impacts. Diversion has begun."

The man nodded, then turned and made a few hand signals. In the gloom of early morning, the soldier behind them was barely visible, even though he was only a good two dozen yards away. The long coats they all wore helped mask them in this ashen and dead part of the country. Elena glanced at the desiccated trees and cindered ground and couldn't suppress a shudder. Here and there, fronds of an alien, red plant thrust from the soil. It had begun to clamber up the remnants of the plants in the area; covering over remains of burned out houses, sunken wagons and the odd, dust covered mound that may have once been a person.

It was all too familiar. She'd walked down roads flanked by the charred remains of fleeing people. Seen a corpse pile in the middle of a town. Watched as people were loaded into strange, steel boxes and then the _noise_ of….

She pushed the memory away - they had a job to do.

At the edge of the treeline, what little of it remained, they could make out the northern wall. Three towers were on this part of the curve, one seemingly less complete than the others. Searchlights swept the ground in front of the wall, the spindly towers tracking the discs of light.

Volk chewed his lip, then spat onto the dry earth, "Right, so… call in artillery… but they could knock the shells out of the sky. We advance those things cook us alive."

Elena nodded slowly, "Remember the orders of the commander, of the Engineer. These things, they do not like heat. They need time. So, we must make them _work_."

"A fine proposition, but I'd rather we didn't parboil half our lads to do that, y'know?"

She gave him a flat smile, "Then it is a good thing my people had a plan, yes?"

Her comrade arched an eyebrow, "Do go on…"

* * *

Volk was impressed. Horrified, but impressed. He watched from their overlook as a stream of Lost thundered across the common towards the wall. The heat ray towers were flashing like the camera bulbs of excited Press men. Each flash ignited another clump of the walking dead. And still they came. He looked askance at Elena, "How?"

"Since our initial briefing and plan, several weeks ago. Before the London strike. EXALT had been corralling the Lost into pens, to help clear or rehabilitate. Some of those pens were only a few miles away, secured. We just unlocked them a few days ago and led them here…."

Volk looked mildly horrified, "They could be… saved? And your just pushing them to die?"

"No, they are already dead. The Doctor, Vahlen, she has said they are not human, not alive anymore. More like… machine of meat."

Volk still looked ill, then squinted at the towers, "Blasted things don't seem to be exactly doubling down do they?"

Elena squinted and pointed at the rightmost one, "That one - firing intervals are two seconds slower. That's our vulnerable point."

Volk nodded and stroked his beard, "Let's give them a bit of best of British," he turned and signalled to the soldier behind them. The man jogged up and Volk patted his shoulder, "Get Engine number nine prepped, see if they can't full focus on that…." he rattled off a few more orders and turned back to Elena as the man scurried off, "Time for some fireworks."

She nodded, then adjusted the various satchel charges and explosives dotted across her bandolier, "Good."

Behind them, some distance away, came the heavy rumble of engines and a whirr of hydraulics. A pair of captured spider-machines scuttled forwards, each holding large, reflective shields in place of their normal pincers. Further behind, more engines revved to life and a walker straightened from behind the ridge. It was more complete and wavered as it rose to full height.

This close, Elena still couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. The enemy's tools turned against them. It was almost awe inspiring. She watched as the air around the front of the machine rippled. Then there was a flash that seared into her retina. It wasn't something she saw, but felt like she _should._

In the distance something whined and hissed. She tracked her gaze back and nodded. The fluctuating tower was steaming and sparking. The raised gantry it was on was also leaning to one side, the metal clearly having been so heated that it had warped. At the base of the tower, steam was beginning to riise as some form of coolant system failed.

Volk raised a hand then chopped it forward. There was a whistling crack as a volley of missiles streaked overhead and blasted into the other two towers and the wall below. The walker hummed again and fired once more. Elena watched as a fractured piece of the metal wall buckled and began to melt. The second missile volley ruptured the wall entirely and it collapsed. Beyond, another tower ceased firing.

And then exploded.

The blast took out a chunk of the perimeter wall and sent some of the lost, who'd reach the wall itself, flying. Dust rose and obscured their vision for a moment. It also meant the final heat ray tower on _this_ side wasn't able to fire. She watched as, on the common, the remaining Lost were now making headway for the gap in the wall. There weren't many left, maybe four score. But they were now inside the enemy base. She turned to Volk.

"Now is the best time. We must move."

He nodded, then gestured to the waiting spider machines. They trundled forwards, whilst lines of infantry trudged behind them. Steam tractors pulled water tanks behind them, which sprayed clouds of water above the advancing infantry. And to their flanks rumbled Mk 1 and Mk 2 SHIVS.

Volk and Elena exchanged glances, then pulled the hoods up on their coats and fixed their masks in place. Around them, more figures became visible as they detached themselves from trees and stood from prone positions, their coats having nearly perfectly camouflage them.

Elena looked to her people. Not all of them - some were aboard the aircraft in bound. But these were her responsibility. She nodded to them, then broke into a jog, following the advancing infantry. As they approach the wall, the heat ray swivelled and locked on. She saw the search light sweep across the column. It fired with a whine. Men stumbled, hssing, but relatively safe as the water vapour around them turned to steam. She sped up, threaded her way through the ranks. One of her men dashed ahead, Another salvo of missiles streaked in which caused the heat ray to retarget the incoming rockets. With that break, she watched her fellow sprint forward, ducking through cover until he reached the wall breach. She saw him vanish out of sight.

On the walls above, figures had appeared and were now peppering the advancing British with bolts of green and grenades. The troops were hunkered down behind the Shives and spider-mechs, advancing, albeit slowly.

Suddenly another explosion tore through the air. The final heat ray tower buckled and toppled. Something below it ruptured and a secondary explosion triggered. The wall was blasted out as some vital system overloaded. The defenders atop the wall were send flying, screaming away along with burning debris.

Elena grinned savagely as she saw her fellow return. The man took a knee and trained a rifle at the western wall. A shot rang out and she saw a Muton topple from the wrecked walkway. Next to her she heard someone pick up a cry of "For Queen and Country!"

The hue and cry rose. And with that, the British _charged_. The SHIVS rumbled up the slight incline and fired their grapple chains, then began to reverse, pulling down the wrecked walls. Soldiers broke from shielded cover and moved fast, but with purpose to the breach, before they swept in.

Behind them, the walker fire again and atop the walls, a good half dozen enemy defenders tumbled away, their bodies aflame. She saw Volk pause and nod at her, then point towards the breach. She turned to her troops and raised her rifle, then pointed ahead.

They advanced. It was past time to finish this.


End file.
